The Adventure of the Detective's Gun
by Sympathy4TheDevil
Summary: When a woman takes in a homeless man in a random act of charity, she never imagines what it might lead to. Solving crimes and seducing geniuses are all commonplace occurrences when you live with the world's only consulting detective, but does this intriguing woman have a secret so dark that even the great Sherlock Holmes couldn't deduce it? Warnings inside.
1. Chapter 1: The meeting

**_WARNINGS: KISSING TOWARDS THE END. IF THIS OFFENDS YOU, GROW UP :)_**

My story starts on a Tuesday morning at a small bus stop in Oxford. I was waiting for a bus into town when the X90 from London pulled up. A single man came out, with huge bags underneath his grey-green eyes, running his long fingers through his black hair. I've always noticed things about people, and I saw that he had grazes on his cheekbones and a series of small cuts above his eyebrow. He met my gaze directly and said "Shut up." I glanced around for someone to save me from this weirdo, but there was no one. "Uh, sorry? I didn't say anything." I said awkwardly. "You were thinking. It's annoying." Genuinely terrified, I said, "Sorry." and decided to walk away. He took a step towards me, and crumpled to the floor. My natural worry for this odd man overcame my fear of him, and I rushed over to him, helping him to his feet. "You've been travelling for days, haven't you?" I guessed. "No food apart from what you fought stray cats for out of dustbins?"  
He eyed me suspiciously. "The scratches above my eyebrows?"  
"Yes."  
"Well you've just broken up with your longterm boyfriend, you work as a dancer, play the piano and spend inordinate amounts of money on clothes despite living half your life in an army uniform."  
I was amazed by the speed and accuracy with which he deduced these facts."I've never met anyone apart from me who could do that, and you're much better at it than I am." I said. "But you're not quite right: I'm an actress, and I'm in the RAF, not the army. But how - oh! I'm still using Robbie's deodorant, my ballet shoes are peeping out of my bag, I hold myself like a dancer, I'm wearing expensive shoes and I naturally stand at ease when I'm waiting."

"There's always something!" He muttered angrily.

We looked at each other, both wary of the other's powers of observation. Simultaneously, we both started laughing. He had a wonderful laugh, which I guessed people didn't hear much. Sufficiently convinced that he wasn't crazy (well, not crazier than me) I held out my hand for him to shake. "I'm Lillia-Ellen. My friends call me Elle. Who are you?"  
His smiling face immediately closed into a frown and his lips curled into a sneer. "My name is immaterial." He said abruptly. He turned on his heel and made as if to leave, but I reached out and caught his arm. It was even skinnier than I had previously thought. "Where are you going?" I asked.  
"I thought you had above average intelligence. I am moving away from you." He said coldly. Normally I would have hit such a pretentious bastard, but I had felt a connection with him, and there had been such a drastic change in his attitude that I thought it must have been due to what I had said as opposed to this being his natural way of speaking to people. I took a deep breath and said "I'm going to give you one more chance. You seem like a nice, if slightly mental person, but cut the crap. You need somewhere to sleep, and I need your name and the assurance that you're only a mild sociopath. So what's it going to be? You gonna walk away, or are you going to stop being a git and get a decent night's rest?"  
He looked first at me and then at my hand on his arm. He closed his eyes and muttered to himself for a second before his eyelids flew up and he thrust his hand out for me to shake. "I'm John. John... Mycroft. And I've decided to stay at your house. Lead the way." He said his name so haltingly that I thought it must be a pseudonym, but I decided not to push the subject further. Instead, I gave up all hope of getting into the city centre and started walking back to my house. "What changed your mind? Why have you condescended to staying with me for the night?" I asked him.  
"You said 'sociopath'."  
"So?"  
"Most people say psychopath." He said simply, and fell into step behind me.

When we got to the front door, I started searching in my bag for my keys. It normally takes me a while to find them amongst all the gunk I keep in there, but this time it seemed like I'd really lost them. I was on the verge of tipping the entire contents of my bag out onto the driveway when I heard a familiar click and creaking sound. I looked up to find 'John' standing in my doorway, looking around the entrance hall. Both annoyed and amazed by the fact that he was able to break into my house so easily, I slammed the door shut behind me, forcing him to take a few steps forward onto the welcome mat. "Wipe your feet, and take your shoes off. You've been tramping through fields in them for days." I said, pointing to the trail of mud and grass stains he had already created on the limestone floor. I chucked my bus pass into the bowl where I kept my keys and spare change, and waited impatiently as he took his scruffy black shoes off and placed them next to my cowboy boots. I noted that, like all his clothes, his shoes must have once been quite nice and certainly good quality. Interesting.  
I quickly pushed open the doors to the rooms on the ground floor, showing him where everything was. I then told him to wait in the kitchen as I went to get him some clean clothes and some towels. "You can have some of my brother's old stuff." I told him. "You'll have to be careful not to ruin it, but it should be around your size." Shoving the bundle of clothes at him, I showed him upstairs to the guest bathroom and told him not to steal anything, though I thought petty crime was probably beneath him. I made us both tea and got him one of the last of my father's expensive cigars : I could tell by the callouses on his hands that he smoked, but from the state of him he probably hadn't had the money to finance that habit for a while. I had guessed correctly - when he came back down, he took the cigar with a grateful sigh and lit it with an expression of extreme serenity on his face. Now that he was clean, he looked like a different man - quite an attractive one, at clothes fit him well, and the style certainly suited him. And if the shirt was a few sizes too big, it was only because he was so emaciated himself. "Would you like some food?" I asked. "I was going to eat in town, but now that you're here I might as well attempt to cook, because you most probably don't even know how a toaster works."  
He glared at me haughtily and declared "I know perfectly well how the physics works, I just lack practical experience. Anyway, why would I need to know useless information like that? It wastes space that could be taken up with more important things." I laughed incredulously at him, and said "God, you're just like my brother. At least he recognises that it might be quite useful to know how to feed himself though! But the number of times I've had to tell him not to put spoons in the microwave..."  
"Spoons would have no adverse affect, only forks would cause a problem."  
"I know, he says that too. I'm still terrified he'll blow up the house!"  
I said as I busied myself making pasta.  
"Worry is one of the most pointless of emotions." He said, looking around the kitchen. Suddenly, he got up and left, coming back a minute later with a violin from the music room. "Whose is this? It hasn't been played in about ten years."  
"No, it hasn't. It was my brother's, but he gave up during his GCSE year. You're welcome to play it if you want."  
He gazed at the instrument almost hungrily, and placed it lovingly underneath his chin. I don't know what I was expecting to happen, but it certainly wasn't for a strange solo version of Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto: Finale to come from the strings as his fingers expertly manipulated the bow.

He continued playing for a long time, stopping only to eat an entire bowl of pasta ravenously. I recognised most of the pieces he played, and I wondered at how easily he remembered the complicated series of notes. He caught me staring at him as I washed the plates up, and he suddenly said: "Name the composers whose pieces I've played just now in chronological order."  
"Tchaikovsky, Vivaldi, Bach and... Was that last one Mozart?"  
"Exactly. Most people would have got half of those wrong, or at least messed up the order. So what's different about you?"  
I shrugged. "I like music. And I listen more, I guess."  
"No. Most people listen, but you... Process things." He shook his head as if to rid it of something. "I'm too tired to think about this now." He continued. "Show me the rest of the house and where I can sleep for an hour or two. Then you can tell me about the town and find me a phone charger." His imperious tone made me laugh. Who did he think he was, ordering me around like that? Then again, he looked exhausted, so maybe he wasn't himself in spite of the shower and the food. Deciding to let it go for now, I did as he asked and made up a bed for him in the guest bedroom (he couldn't sleep on the sofa as it was a very odd shape, and he was hardly going to know how to make a bed himself!). Then I got him a pair of pyjamas, and left him to his own devices. Knowing full well that despite appearances John could be a serial killer/rapist/thief, I took the precaution of locking his bedroom door.

He came out of his room (I assume he picked the lock) and into the kitchen exactly two hours later. Even with such a small amount of sleep, he looked a lot better, and I was struck for a second time by the alertness of his oddly coloured eyes, and the peculiar beauty of his face. I also noted that his three-day stubble had disappeared, replaced by a small nick on the left side of his jaw. "Not used to a straight razor?" I asked. He looked at me sharply. "This is exactly what I was talking about earlier." He said.  
"Well, I can't help noticing things about you I'm afraid, so you're going to have to live with it. Anyway, you wanted to know about Oxford. So shoot!"  
He took another long look at me and then started asking his questions. They all concerned the layout of the city and where he was right now. Apparently, he wouldn't have needed me if he had his phone (Google maps appeared to be his best friend), but it had run out of battery some days ago. I had found him a phone charger, but he surprised me by not plugging it in until he had taken the SIM card out. "Are you all done with your questions? Because I have a few of my own, 'John'." I said finally.  
"I'm afraid they will have to remain unanswered."  
"Why? I let you into my house, gave you food and clothes, and a place to sleep. Don't I deserve a little information? I could be harbouring a fugitive!" A startled look flashed across his face, disturbing the sneering mask that fixed itself onto his features every time I queried his identity. Bingo. "Who are you, and why do you call yourself John? You clearly were well off at one point, as your clothes are expensive and well made, yet you've spent days outside with no money to buy food or shelter. You're running away from something or someone powerful, aren't you? That would explain why you took the SIM out of your phone: you don't want them to be able to trace you, something which they must have the resources to do." In the middle of my tirade I noticed that the too-big shirt I had lent him had fallen away from his angular hip, revealing a gun tucked into the waistband of his trousers. My voice rose about an octave, though I tried to keep calm. "And you've got a Sig Sauer P226R, even though they're army issue and you're not in the army. So whose gun is it? And why do you have it?"  
My barrage of questions seemed to have an affect on him at last, and he stood up. "I don't have to tell you anything!" He shouted  
"What is your NAME?!" I shouted back.  
"I told you, my name is immaterial! Now stop asking bloody questions!"  
"Your NAME, NOW! Or you get out of my house."  
"I was Sherlock Holmes!" He roared at me. This last statement seemed to take it out of him entirely, and he clutched onto the back of a chair to steady himself, his hands shaking uncontrollably.  
"I was Sherlock Holmes." He repeated. "But now I am no one. Dead men have no names."

That sentence would have been ludicrously melodramatic if it hadn't been delivered by a man with wild eyes and a gun. Had it been anyone else, I would have laughed in their face, but someone with a name like Sherlock Holmes sounded like they needed to be taken seriously. I stood up slowly and helped him into a seat. His hands were still shaking, so I went to get him another cigar and a cup of tea. I took the gun away from him and inspected it: it was loaded. I put it away in the corner out of his reach, pointing towards the wall.  
I took a deep breath and watched as the blue smoke rings from the cigar chased their way up to the ceiling. "Tell me what happened." I demanded.  
Suddenly the very picture of calm, Sherlock Holmes put the cigar down on the ash tray, closed his eyes and placed his elbows on the arms of his chair, with his finger tips together. "I think it would be best," he remarked, "to begin at the beginning. I am - or rather, I was until recently - the world's only consulting detective, and I used to live in 221B Baker Street, London..."

His story was one of the most bizarre that I had ever heard. I mean, who had arch-enemies whose names they couldn't reveal in case I was unknowingly employed by them? And I couldn't understand who this John Watson guy was. Was he Sherlock's boyfriend, or what? If he was, he must be heartbroken right now, thinking that Sherlock was dead. And if he wasn't his boyfriend, Sherlock must be at least 30, so he had to have some kind of relationship going on with someone, no matter how pretentious he acted sometimes. Come on, those cheekbones!  
None of these were things I really wanted to ask Sherlock himself, so I contented myself with being torn between wonder and pity. Wonder at how this man seemed to live in a completely different world to mine, one that contained murder mysteries and moonlit chases through London. And pity for him, because no matter how hard he tried to pretend that he knew everything, Sherlock was obviously lost outside Baker Street. Unfortunately, he saw me staring at him and recognised the pity in my eyes. It seemed to disgust him, and I can only suppose that what he did next was a depressingly pathetic attempt to get me to change that emotion to admiration.  
"Human emotion is pointless enough without it being aimed at me."  
"Emotions are pointless? You really believe that?"  
"Of course. I have distanced myself completely from anything that could impair my abilities as a detective, including experiencing love, pity, or caring about things. It's easy to be disdainful about something you cannot feel yourself."  
I snorted in derision. "Bullshit. I've never met a single man incapable of experiencing a certain type of... Well, I suppose you could call it an emotion."  
"I will be the first then."  
"Oh, I very much doubt it Mr. Holmes. You may be different, but you can't resist this. It's ingrained in every man. Trust me, I wish it wasn't, but it is."  
"Whatever this is, I'm sure I'm above it."  
"All right. Let's test your theory." I stood up, and motioned for him to copy me. I wasn't normally this forward, but he had seriously pissed me off. I had a feeling it was part of his skill set. Moving around the table to where he was standing, I took a step towards him, so that I was about a metre away from him. I took his hand in mine, slowly rotating my fingers so that I was in a position to take his pulse without him noticing what I was doing. I counted the beats in my head as I kept taking small steps. To my surprise, they were still regular by the time our noses were almost touching, so I leaned forward and lightly raked the bottom of his lip with my top teeth as I kissed him softly. As I had expected, his body remained rigid even as his pulse skyrocketed. Point proven, I stepped back and laughed. "I took your pulse. It seems that not even you, Sherlock Holmes, can be above the simple chemistry of sexual attraction!"  
"I took your pulse too. It increased the second you were less than a metre away from me." He retorted.  
"Ah, but I'm not the one professing to be 'above' human sentiments. I think you're a lot more human than you like to think."  
I got the vibe that he didn't like to be bested.  
"Stop inflicting your opinions on the world." Was his only answer to my comment. He turned on his heel and went into the living room, where he curled up on the sofa in catlike position, face buried in the plethora of cushions. What a child!

I tried speaking to him, but nothing would elicit a response. I eventually gave up and started learning lines instead. About an hour later, I was brought back to the real world by an exclamation of "I'm bored!" From next door. "I'm not surprised, you've been sitting there doing nothing for over an hour!" I called back.  
"Find me something to do!"  
"Find yourself something to do!"  
"Don't be ridiculous, it's your house!"  
I rolled my eyes. I was about to retort that if he was bored in my house he could jolly well go be bored on the streets, but I suddenly had an idea. This guy thought he was clever, but I had no idea how much of that was justified. I should give him a challenge - not code breaking, because he said he'd beaten one of the nation's best cryptographers... A treasure hunt would appeal to his childish nature, but he would most likely consider that beneath him. But a fact hunt... If I chose interesting things for him to find out, it would shut him up for a while and make him feel like he was doing something worthwhile. Hmmm.  
"Sherlock! How about finding out three things about me:  
Where I went to uni, my nationality, and how many languages I speak. You're allowed free rein when it comes to rummaging around the house, and you can ask me two direct questions." I was sceptical that he would participate in something so obviously childish, but it was worth a try.  
There was a pause, and then I heard him spring to his feet. A moment later, his head appeared around the door. "I need an incentive for this to be fun."  
"Uhhhh... If you get all of them right, you can stay here indefinitely. If you get one wrong, you have to tell me I'm right about you having emotions. If you get two wrong, you have to stop being so cocky, and if you get them all wrong you..."  
"That won't happen. Laters!"  
With that he disappeared completely.

Over the course of the afternoon I heard various banging noises coming from all sides of the house. I passed him in the corridor as I went to get something from my room, and I hardly recognised the tired and dishevelled man I had picked off the streets only this morning. His eyes had darkened in colour, and were shining brightly; his strides were long and measured; his fingers were tapping out a rhythm on his thigh; and there was a small, almost mocking smile on his face.  
He came back downstairs after a surprisingly short period of time. "What profession did your parents hold?" He asked.  
"They were both lawyers."  
"What are your middle names?"  
"How did you know I had more than one? Natasha, Joy and Victoria."  
"Simple deduction, quite dull actually. You're half French and half Welsh, you speak French, English and Spanish and you attended Oxford University. Either Worcester or Trinity College, I'm not sure which."  
"No."  
"Sorry?"  
"Very close, but no. I speak Russian, not Spanish, though I studied Spanish for two years when I was 12."  
He looked at me through narrowed eyes. "Oh of course! Stupid. Stupid! That notebook had letters that looked Cyrillic."  
I grinned triumphantly (yes, I'm a bad winner) and said "Well, I think that all that's left for us to do here is for you to tell me just how right I was in guessing that you're susceptible to sentiment."  
"Don't be ridiculous. You caught me unawares. Under normal circumstances my heartrate would have remained entirely constant."  
"Oh come on! Just admit you've lost."  
"I maintain that it wasn't a fair test."  
I stared at him coldly. "I don't want to take on the role of 'corrupter of your innocence', Mr. Holmes. Don't make me."  
"If you had given me time to prepare, I would have willed myself to keep calm. Not that I would have needed much prompting."  
Angered by this slight against me, I hissed, "Fine. Have your 'time to prepare', and match your iron willpower against your body. I have no doubt that your body will betray you."  
"I don't have time for this!" He said dismissively.  
"I expected more from you. Too complacent to admit you've been beaten, and too cowardly to try again. Look at the poor man!"  
His head whipped round and his eyes met mine.  
"If you hadn't said those last words, you wouldn't have had to embarrass both of us by doing this. Now you're going to have to live with the consequences."  
"Don't be stupid, Sherlock. I'll give you two minutes. Use the time wisely: Prepare yourself."  
"I'm quite ready now, thank you." He announced sarcastically.  
"Good."

I stepped towards him and repeated what I had done earlier, except I didn't bother taking his pulse. I wasn't measuring his heartrate this time, I was seeing how long it would take before he reacted to what I was doing to him. Consequently, instead of breaking the kiss almost as soon as I'd instigated it, I placed my palms flat on his chest as I pressed my lips against his. His mouth had already been slightly open, so before he could close it I slipped my tongue in and kissed him properly. When he didn't react, I pushed him forcefully so that he was backed up against the table and made sure there was no distance between our bodies. I could feel every inch of him against me, but he wasn't moving at all. Just as I was thinking that I might have to try another technique, I felt his tongue move with mine. I closed my eyes and savoured the moment - strangely enough, he was a very good kisser - before stepping back. "There we are. Well and truly double crossed by no one but yourself." I attempted to turn around and leave the room, feeling quite proud of myself, but he caught my arm. I was suddenly aware of how similar this situation was to when we first met (could it have only been this morning?), but in reverse.  
"What do you want, Sherlock? Are you going to try and claim that that wasn't a fair test?"  
"No. But all good experiments require repeats to be accurate." I caught sight of an expression I hadn't yet seen before in his eyes before he slid his hand down to my wrist and moved his other hand so that it was cupping my neck just underneath my jaw. His mouth imprinted itself on mine and I felt his entire body pressed against me. I broke off for a second to ask "Is that your gun, or...?"  
"It's not my gun." He growled. I smiled and said "I don't think I quite recorded the results properly. Would you mind if we tried the test one last time, Mr. Holmes?"  
His only reply was to pin me against a wall and kiss me again.


	2. Chapter 2: Victor

_**Author's note: Warnings of kissing, flirting, ridiculous power struggles and mentions of sex. Crime solving starts next chapter. Thanks for reading, any comments and reviews welcome :)**_

This time, he was the one to step back.  
"You're not bad at kissing, for someone who acts like he's got a mild from of Aspergers."  
"I've had a lot of practice. No point in missing data when it comes to romance. It's quite popular in homicide cases."  
That sent my heartrate soaring even as thoughts that should only come out when no one else is around suddenly seared through my imagination.  
"Does that mean..." I coughed, my mouth dry. I knew he knew what I was about to say, but he wanted to hear the way I phrased it. "Does that mean you've had sex? No offence, but you're letting off a virgin vibe. It's quite attractive, actually."  
His lips curved, revealing his white incisors. "No, my data collecting hasn't reached that point."  
I matched his wolffish grin with an equally predatory smile, and finished his sentence for him, "Yet."  
But neither of us instigated a kiss. We just stood there, taking stock of the other's mental and physical capabilities. Then, we simultaneously looked away and stalked off in different directions. We both wanted each other, but we weren't going to bring ourselves to do anything about it. Now that we had both made a move, we were on equal footing; and the first person to lose control and throw themselves at the other would forever be seen ever so slightly disdainfully by the 'winning' side. It was a simple power struggle, but there was too much at stake for either of us to lose.

Needless to say that things were a bit awkward around the house after that encounter. I think it must have been worse for him, because my excitement had been slightly less 'forward' (read: hadn't pressed against his lower stomach extremely pointedly when we were kissing) than mine and therefore my disappointment was easier to hide. The only thing which kept my mind off memories of us kissing was masterminding a plan that would force his hand. And if I was thinking, you can damn well bet he was thinking too.  
I was re-reading a page in my book for the third time and trying to imagine a situation in which my plan would work when I heard a noise from upstairs. It was like a radiator with an airblock: low rumbling which occasionally moved up or down the octave at random. Two possibilities went through my head - it was either a broken household appliance, or Sherlock had thought of a plan before I had and had started putting it into action. Either way, it wasn't disturbing me too much, so I might as well wait to see what it was. If it didn't stop in the next five minutes, I decided, I would go up there and investigate.  
Three minutes later the noise stopped. And then started again, in a slightly more insistent way. I heard some other sound meld with it, in such a way that I couldn't distinguish what this new sound was. Could it, possibly, maybe, be faint moaning? Coming from, perhaps, Sherlock?The very thought sent electricity shooting down my spine. I got up suddenly and went upstairs, seeking the source of the noise. As far as I could tell, it came from the bedroom that Sherlock had commandeered. Knocking on the door had no effect, so I went through the master bedroom, into the bathroom, and from there through a door that connected to Sherlock's room. He was lying on the floor, completely rigid. He could have been dead, except for the way that every four seconds (or nine heartbeats, the way my pulse was racing) he opened his lips slightly, and groaned. The purring did seem to come from the radiator, and it was getting louder and louder. "Sherlock!" I raised my voice so that it could be heard over what was quickly becoming a cacophony. At the sound of his name, Sherlock's groans increased in frequency. If these noises were due to some stimulation in his dream (was he even sleeping?), did the fact that he was now groaning every two seconds mean he was turned on by his own name? Trust Sherlock.  
"Sherlock! Sherlock, are you OK?" Still no response, except perhaps a slightly louder sound. God, his voice was exquisite.  
"Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?" No reply. Brilliant. Was he ignoring me? No, that would show he'd been affected by what had happened earlier. Hmm. He could actually be in some kind of trance, in which case I should wake him up... I reached over tentatively and prodded his shoulder. He immediately jerked his entire torso up so that he was sitting bolt upright, and his eyes flew open. The groans ceased.  
"Sherlock, what..." He cocked his head to the side and stood up.  
"The radiator's broken."  
"Yeah, no shit. What were you doing?"  
"Sleeping. Obviously."  
"Oh, yeah. Obviously." My voice was dripping with sarcasm.  
"Since when do people sleep so... Verbally?" I continued, "It's a little disturbing for someone trying to read anywhere in the vicinity. Like London."  
"Since people don't have working radiators."  
"Huh?"  
"I was making a sound so that I could block out the background noise of your malfunctioning heater." He explained in an exasperated manner.  
"Oh, of course. How stupid of me not to have guessed that that was what you were doing."  
"Indeed. Now fix that thing so I can get some sleep without having 4% of my brain controlling my vocal chords."  
"Fix it yourself. Try not putting it on high. That'll fix the problem of my extortionate heating bill as well."  
His horrified look was a pleasure to behold. "Fix it? But... But... How?"  
"I have no clue." I threw over my shoulder as I left.

I assume he managed to do something useful, since the noise stopped after a while. Realising that the house was now relatively silent, I contemplated putting my plan into action. I could just about hear Sherlock moving around upstairs, so I knew he wasn't asleep. Taking a deep breath, I moved over to the sofa and lay on it, my head on one armrest and my feet kind of dangling off the other. This wasn't something I'd thought of purely for Sherlock's entertainment: I actually did use this technique when lines were proving particularly difficult to remember. However, I certainly never used it in front of an audience. Well, there's a first time for everything, I thought. I closed my eyes and brought up a picture of the script in my head. Bits I hadn't yet learnt appeared as blanks, almost as if they had been rubbed out. Placing my fingertips on my forehead with my thumbs on my temples, I visualised one of my lines and 'moved' it from the page into a sort of box in my head. My fingertips traced the movement on my temples, and as I repeated the process again and again, they got more and more frantic. I was eventually tugging at my scalp as involuntary moans escaped my lips. Somewhere deep within my subconscious I heard the living room door open and I was aware that someone was now watching. As strange as it may sound, my body was actually moving independently now, as I concentrated all my efforts to what was going on in my head. I felt my chest rise and fall with ridiculously exaggerated movements, and my hips sometimes rose and fell with it. My toes were pointing and flexing; my eyes were flitting from side to side underneath my closed lids; my thumbs were now stroking my cheekbones and I was somehow letting out purring noises that would make a pornstar blush. Finally my entire back arched up and my fingers stopped moving abruptly. As I fell back into the cushions on the sofa, I was in control of myself once more, and I slowly relaxed all my tensed muscles, opening my eyes in bliss. My chest was still heaving, but slightly less prominently. I turned my head to the side, and though my vision was still a bit blurry I could see Sherlock's tall and unmistakable figure standing quite close to me. His face bent over mine, until our lips were almost touching. I felt a small surge of triumph wash through me - I had won! But I rejoiced too soon. He gazed into my eyes, and waited for my pupils to return to normal size before whispering, "Interesting. I follow almost the same pattern when I delete."  
"Do you indeed?" I asked equally softly, propping myself up on my elbows. "I might have to see that and form my own opinion."  
"Yes, you might. You do realise what you've just done, of course?"  
I smiled and placed my face even closer to his. "Of course. I've just upped the ante."  
His murmur of assent was almost a growl. I rolled off the sofa onto my feet, my lips not quite brushing his in the process.  
"I look forward to seeing your next move." I breathed into his ear.  
"I look forward to the consequences." He breathed into mine.  
We both smirked, and for the second time that day we both disappeared in opposite directions. But he didn't quite have time to turn around before I noticed a very suspicious object around the vicinity of his front pocket. It was but a small victory, yet my smile grew even wider.

I knew I had to up my game. Being around Sherlock - it had been three days now - was quickly becoming unbearable. Every move he made, be it to pick up an object, eat something, touch his face, anything, was attractive to me. I had never before been rendered practically to liquid by the sight of someone's neck until a certain Mr. Holmes stretched his in my direction. The worst part was that there was no promise of release, no knowing when this would all end. I was getting desperate, and I knew I had to win soon, or I would make the mistake of becoming the loser. The problem was that this man was too damn observant. If I started wearing slightly more revealing clothing, he would notice immediately. The same applied to any other thinly veiled invitation I could think of - to Sherlock, they would just be glaringly obvious advances. He, meanwhile, seemed to have completely forgotten all about our little game.

By Saturday, I couldn't bear being cooped up in the house any longer. I got up earlier than Sherlock (that is, earlier than mid-afternoon) and dressed silently, leaving a note on the kitchen table to say that I would be back soon. I had loads to do in town, and things took a lot longer than I had expected. I was leisurely buying books in Blackwell's when I happened to catch sight of my watch. I had been gone way longer than I had said I would be! I payed for everything as fast as I could and practically sprinted out of the shop. I inevitably crashed into someone on Broad Street as I hurried to the bus stop, and my purchases went flying. I apologised profusely as I gathered the books up and then heard a thud. Looking around I noticed that the person I had collided with was lying face down on the pavement. Gasping in shock, I turned them round so that they were lying on their back and saw the bloodless face of a young man, who was nearly unconscious. He held out his left hand to me, wrapped in some kind of red handkerchief. He muttered something that sounded like, "No hospital, thumb... No, no hospital..." I inspected the hand more closely and almost fainted - the handkerchief wasn't red, it was soaked in blood. I unwound it unwillingly, knowing that what was underneath was likely to be less than attractive. I still could have never guessed the extent of the damage. The entire left thumb, from the root, had been hacked off.

My first instinct was to wind the handkerchief back on even more tightly, in an attempt to curb the blood flow. I then cast my eyes around the street, but for once it was deserted. Of course. I took out my mobile to call an ambulance, but the man took hold of my arm with his other hand, holding me in a surprisingly strong grip. "No hospital." He repeated insistently. What could I do? I helped the man to his feet, and walked him to a cafe where I ordered him an Irish coffee. The alcohol seemed to do him good, and my next step was to ask him his name and what had happened to him.  
"I'm Victor Hatherley. I live on my own, and I was attacked last night, whilst on a job for a mysterious client... I would have gone straight to the police, only I have so little evidence... My thumb, or rather my lack of thumb, is the sole thing I have to back up my statement. In fact, I doubt that the guy who attacked me will even be arrested, as there's no way of tracing him."  
I thought about this. Surely the police would have to do something? But Victor refused to go to a hospital. And I couldn't just leave him, not when I could help him. I had a detective living in my house, after all. It was about time Sherlock did something useful, anyway. On an impulse, I said "Come to my house and I'll get you bandaged up. One of my... Uh, my housemate is a kind of amateur detective who's not attached to the police in any way. He might be able to help you." Noticing that Victor looked dubious, I smiled and joked, "I'm not a serial killer, I promise! And neither is he. You might as well give it a try."  
He looked me over suspiciously and then said "Oh, alright then." I grinned and led him to the bus stop, looking forward to Sherlock's face when he saw I had a case for him.

I left Victor with a tall glass of brandy in the kitchen, and went to find Sherlock. Knowing that Victor may have heard of him, I wanted to tell him to answer to the name of James or something equally mundane for the purposes of this case. Sherlock failed to respond (again) when I knocked on his door, so I was forced to go the long way round (again).  
He was listening to music when I barged in. I've never seen anyone gaze so rapturously at a wall before, their eyes half-closed and their breathing heavy. He pulled the earbuds out when he noticed me, and immediately snapped to attention, but his pupils remained abnormally dilated. "Your music isn't bad." He said, gesturing towards my iPod. "I went out for the morning, so you stole my iPod, cracked the code and listened to my music?"  
"Evidently."  
"Wow, you really are bored. Lucky I have a surprise for you then."  
"What?" He asked, leaning forwards.  
"There's someone downstairs who I'd like you to meet. Call yourself something different whilst he's here, in case he's heard your name or something."  
"What should I say my name is? John Mycroft?"  
"No, that's stupid. How about something that actually sounds a bit like Sherlock, so if I accidentally start calling you by your real name, he won't notice."  
"Like what?"  
"Ummm... Sheldon?"  
"No."  
"Tough. You are now Sheldon. Sheldon...Hames."  
He looked at me with pure loathing. "That is the worst alias I have ever heard."  
"Meh. Too bad, I rather like it. See you downstairs, Sheldon!"  
I laughed and winked at him as I said it and ran down to prepare Victor for the whirlwind that was Sherlock Holmes. Or rather, Sheldon Hames.


	3. Chapter 3: The Young Engineer

_**Author's Note: The mystery starts here! I hope you enjoy it. It is loosely based on one of Sir Arthur Conan-Doyle's stories, so if you recognise it vaguely, that's why! Not much sexual tension here, I'm afraid, but it'll be back, I promise ;)**_

I heard Sherlock's reluctant footsteps a few minutes later and had to try hard to stop myself from laughing hysterically as Victor thrust out his hand and said "Sheldon, I suppose?" The look on his face was a hilarious mixture of fear and confusion as 'Mr Hames' answered: "Yes, 'suppose' is the right word. We all do the best we can with the facts we're given, don't we?"

Before Sherlock could say anything else and Victor could run away screaming, I sat him down and said "Why don't you tell us what happened? The worst that we can do is not be able to help."

Still looking mildly apprehensive, he took a shaky breath and started to tell his absurd story.

Victor was a struggling Oxford post-graduate student, studying at Trinity College. He was reading Engineering, and had attempted to set up a small business in his flat, doing specifically hydraulic work for some extra cash. No one was willing to hire him when they had no record of his past work, and he couldn't get any references to show people if no one would hire him - it was a spiral that he thought would eventually see his 'business' folding without ever having a single customer. But yesterday morning, a man had rung him and asked him whether he'd like to make £700 for a night's work. Like every poor student, Victor had jumped at the chance to make some money, and had met the man (whose name was Lukas Stark) in his flat a few hours later. Apparently all that was needed was for Victor to keep completely quiet about the job, come and see what had to be done to fix a machine, and leave with the money in his pocket. Then came the weird part: Victor had to come by train to Eyford at 11:15pm that night. When he asked why he couldn't come in the day, he was simply told that the late hour was 'more convenient, and it was to recompense him for the late hour of travel that they were paying him such an inordinate sum of money' by the slightly German-sounding man. At the threat of Lukas Stark taking his business elsewhere, Victor promised to stop asking questions as long as he was told why everything was so secret. Stark told him that he was a metal detector enthusiast who had recently bought a small property within ten miles of Reading. To his amazement, he had discovered some gold coins in his garden. They weren't more than three hundred years old, so he was under no obligation to report them as historical finds, but they were extremely valuable nonetheless. Stark's next shock had been to find out that the neighbours on either side of him probably had gold in their gardens too - something it was in his interest for them not to find out, as he planned on buying their land. The only problem came when the hydraulic machine he used to turn the earth around the coins into bricks (so that he could remove them without people noticing) broke. Victor was to come and fix it with minimal fuss, and for £700, Victor was very happy to do anything that was more than vaguely legal.

The next extraordinary thing to happen to Victor occurred when he got off the train at Eyford. He had thought about Lukas Stark's story, and had come to the conclusion that if the tall, pale, and skeletally thin man was a metal detector enthusiast, then his Engineering tutor probably owned half the British Government, and the Queen was a Chinese spy. Still, money was money, and Victor liked to think he could take care of himself. So he steeled his nerves, got off the train onto a deserted platform, and waited around on the lane outside for a while, as he'd been instructed to. He jumped when a hand emerged from the bushes and grasped his arm, and he wasn't greatly comforted by the fact that the hand belonged to a certain Mr. Stark. He was pushed into a Land Rover by this individual, and at a motion from Lukas the car went careering off on the muddy country road.

It was at this point in his story that Victor was interrupted. "What colour was the Land Rover?" Asked a certain consulting detective.

"Green, I think. I couldn't see much because most of the street lamps were broken, but I'm almost sure it was green, like a farmer's truck."

"Dirty? Scratched and battered? Or clean?"

"Oh, it was clean. Shiny too, as if it had been newly painted."

A head of dark curls nodded. An impatient hand was waved, in gesture of 'Carry on, mortal creature' and then joined its pair in a steeple underneath a defined jaw.

"We drove for ages along this country road." Victor continued. "I stayed quiet for about an hour, but when I finally tried to make conversation, all I got were monosyllabic replies. I looked out the window to see if I could gauge how far away we were from our destination, but they were tinted and it was so dark outside that there was no way of seeing anything. After an hour more I was going to demand that I be told exactly where this place was, when the car started going up a gravel driveway. Stark pushed me out and it drove off before I could say anything. We stepped right into the dark hallway of a house, but before he could find the light switch a woman came in and spoke to Stark in German or Russian or something."

"What did the woman look like?" Sherlock interrupted.

"She was, uh." Victor coughed embarrassedly. "Properly fit. But really pale. But, like, REALLY fit."

I almost choked trying to contain my laughter. Sherlock looked so disdainful, and poor Victor really did think that that was a proper answer to Sherlock's question!

"Carry on, Victor." I broke in. "You're doing great. Just try to describe things in a bit more detail, yeah?"

He looked at me gratefully and started speaking again. "So, yeah. She had dark hair, I think. And when Stark said something back to her she looked really surprised and started arguing with him, it sounded like. I got told to wait in some room as he pushed her back through the door she had come from. I wondered what was happening, but I looked around the room to see if there was anything interesting in it. There were some books on the desk, and I started flicking through them, but none of them were in English."

"What language?"

"I don't know. German, I guess."

"Oh, for God's..." I took Sherlock's arm and yanked him up off his chair. "Won't be a minute!" I smiled at Victor, shoving Sherlock next door. I hissed at him in French, in case Victor could hear. "What the hell are you doing? Stop intimidating your bloody client! Can't you see he's had a shock? His thumb's half off, for God's sake!"

"He's an absolute idiot. I refuse to help someone who can't even tell the difference between Russian and German. It's an entirely different alphabet!" Sherlock replied sullenly in the same language. His voice sounded even better when he was speaking French, I thought wistfully. I wondered if he sometimes spoke it when he - I shook myself mentally and continued lambasting him. "Look, you either finish listening to his story or you go back to being bored out of your mind. It's your choice, but if you start doing something stupid to try and entertain yourself, I'm kicking you out." I warned him.

"Fine." He spat. "I'll wait until he's finished. But if he describes one more person as being 'properly fit', I'm not responsible for my actions."

I sighed and opened the door, pushing Sherlock back through.

"Is everything OK?" A worried Victor asked.

"Everything's fine," I reassured him, "Sheldon's just not used to company. Please keep going."

'Sheldon' death stared me as Victor started yet again.

"The woman came in again just as I was starting to think I had been abandoned. She looked terrified, and put her finger over her lips to ask me to be quiet. She kept looking back over her shoulder as she spoke to me in broken English. She told me to go away, that I was in danger, but I told her I couldn't go without looking at the machine. She cried 'God in Heaven! Go!' but all I could think of was how I hadn't got any money yet, and how long I'd spent in that stupid Land Rover. I didn't want it to all be for nothing! I told her so, and she was going to say something else when we heard a door slam. She ran off just as Lukas Stark came back with another man. He looked a bit like a fat hobbit - he said his name was Gus Ferguson. They asked why the door was open, and I told them that I'd opened it because it was so hot. The hobbit guy nodded but Stark looked suspicious, so I quickly asked where the machine was. Ferguson told me it was upstairs, and we all went up to the top floor of the house. He didn't say much, but I could tell Ferguson was English, which made me feel better for some reason. The house seemed to be in very bad repair upstairs, with paint peeling off the walls and everything. We all went into a small, square room, and they told me I was actually inside the press. I went back out and started examining all the machinery, and I soon found the problem out. I told them what they had to do, and asked if they wanted me to fix it, but they said they could do it themselves. I was surprised, but I just looked around inside the press for a bit. The whole 'metal detector' story was obviously a lie, because the press was way too big for anything as small as even a chest full of coins. I saw a kind of silvery powder on one of the pistons though, and I was just bending down to look at it when I heard someone gasp. I turned around and saw Stark looking at me, his face red with anger. He asked me what I was doing, and I felt so angry at being tricked that I told him I wanted to know exactly what he was actually doing here, and why he'd lied to me. He ran off without saying anything, and locked the door behind him. I kicked at it and shouted for him to let me out, but I heard a horrible sound. They had started the press, with me still inside it. I screamed and scratched at the door, but the ceiling just kept coming down on me. It was made of iron, like the floor. Oh - the walls were made of wood, by the way. Anyway, I tried to get my mobile out of my pocket to call the police but there was no signal. I thought I was going to die! Suddenly, I saw that the gap between the floor and the bottom of one of the walls was getting bigger, and that a panel was opening. I dragged myself through it, and my foot was almost crushed by the press. I had escaped just in time. I was gasping and panting when I felt someone shaking me frantically, and I saw the girl again. She didn't say anything, but she jerked her head to show me that I should follow her, and I saw she was holding a torch. We ran for it, retracing my steps from earlier. I thought we were actually going to make it when I heard shouting and footsteps behind us. She stopped and looked around, really panicked, and threw open the door to a bedroom. She pointed at the window and said 'You must jump.' I was about to tell her she was crazy when Stark came in, holding a massive cook's knife. I ran over to the window and was opening it when I suddenly wondered what was going to happen to the girl. If that git was going to try and kill her, I was going to stop him. I turned around and saw her fling herself at him and shout, "No Fritz! You promised!" And then something - I remember it because it was so weird - that sounded like "bitter lift tons, was sigh letzen hal" He just snarled at her to shut up and pushed her away. He came at me and I dropped so that I was just hanging by my hands. Then he swung the knife, and I felt dull pain in my hand. I let myself go, and fell into a bush. I ran and ran, but I started feeling really dizzy. That's when I looked down and saw that my thumb had been cut off. I tried to keep running, but I fainted. " Victor gulped down the rest of his brandy, and continued. "I must have slept for ages, because it was sunny when I woke up. I felt my hand throb and realised that I was probably still being chased, but when I looked around I couldn't see the house or fields anywhere. It was like I had been picked up and carried... In fact, I was lying in a bush near a road which seemed to lead to a building. When I followed it, I saw that it was the station, looking exactly the same as it had the night before. If it hadn't been for my thumb, I would have thought it had all been a dream. I managed to catch the next train back into Oxford, but I couldn't call anyone because I'd left my mobile in that press. I was trying to get back to college when I bumped into Elle." He finished.

Sherlock placed his head in his hands and started massaging his head. I exchanged glances with Victor and waited for the genius to realise he was being an idiot. No such luck. Of course. I leant over and whispered "What on earth are you doing?" Cue inarticulate grunting noise. "What?"

"I said shut up."

I turned back to Victor. "He's fine. I mean, I'm not fluent in gibberish, but it sounds like he's just thinking..."

Victor laughed nervously, and then awkward silence prevailed for the best part of 5 minutes. Suddenly, Sherlock jumped up. "bitte nicht tun, was Sie letzten Mal!" He shouted, "Just like Jeremy Hayling!"

"Uh... Who's Jeremy Hayling?" I asked.

"Daily Mail, 9th May last year. 'Jeremy Hayling (26) vanishes from flat in Cambridge. Police baffled by disappearance of young engineer'. Don't you see? It's happened before!"

"You memorise the Daily Mail? Wait, no, don't answer that. Cambridge... Another university town... I suppose the German you just shouted has something to do with it as well?" I asked, more than a little lost.

"Of course! bitte nicht tun, was Sie letzten Mal! It means 'Please, do not do what you did the last time.' She was pleading with him, she knew he was going to kill Victor!"

"A year ago, you said? That must have been the last time Stark needed to have the hydraulics checked! But why all the secrecy? What are they doing with that machine?"

"Silvery powder." Sherlock responded triumphantly. Victor looked at me, utterly confused. Determined to work this out, I ignored him and concentrated on thinking. Silvery powder... Silvery powder... Hydraulic presses and sliver. Silver what? Silver amalgam? What would...

"Oh! Sherlo-Sheldon! I've got it! Coins!"

Victor finally spoke, "Elle, I'm sorry to break it to you, but silver coins aren't the currency in any European country nowadays..."

"But commemorative coins are worth a small fortune if you can fake them properly." Sherlock broke in.

"Here's a map so we can pinpoint where the house is." I said, bringing out my iPhone and opening maps. My phone was immediately snatched from my hand and placed back a moment later, with a dot right next to Eyford station. "But that's not right,

we must have gone at least 100 miles!" Said Victor, peering over my shoulder. Suddenly, I understood.

"60 miles out, and 60 back in!" Sherlock and I said simultaneously.

"You said yourself that the car was clean. How would it not be covered in mud if it had come 120 miles to pick you up?" The detective continued disdainfully. "Now, the only question is, how do we stop them? If you try to go to the police, they'll ask how you guessed everything and know you were helped by someone. Even Scotland Yard isn't stupid enough to believe that you worked this all out by yourself..."

"Simple. We go out there ourselves and see whether they're still there. If they are, we'll tell the police via an anonymous phone call to... What was his name? Lestrade?"

"I'll go flag down a cab!" Sherlock looked closer to happy than I had ever seen him. But his face soon fell with my next words, "Sheldon, this is Oxford. We don't have cabs going up and down a private road..."

"How the hell are we going to get there then?" Followed by something which sounded suspiciously like "Bloody countryside"

My smile was almost feral. "Ducati." I answered. "Get your stupid bat-coat, it's in the entrance hall."

And I could swear I heard the words, "It's not stupid, it's slimming." Muttered under a certain consulting detective's breath.

As soon as Sherlock had left, I turned to Victor. "There's only room for two of us on the bike..." I said apologetically.

"That's fine, I hate motorbikes." He smiled reassuringly.

"Are you sure your thumb is okay? I mean, will you survive until we get back?"

"I'll be fine. Just don't take the brandy bottle away!" He joked.

"We'll FaceTime you when we get near to Eysford station and you can tell us if you recognise the landscape, yeah?"

"Fine, fine." He said, shooing me away with a flapping motion of his hands. "Go be with Sheldon." He added with a cheeky wink. Damn. Was I really that obvious? I grabbed my keys and went next door to get the helmets. Oh, Sherlock was going to hate me for this! He blatantly had no idea what a Ducati was, I thought gleefully. Ah well. Time to drop the bomb!

"Hurry up!" I heard the shout from next door.

"All right, I'm coming!" I shout back. God, for man who had eschewed emotions, he got very stressy! He had already got his shoes on and tapped his foot impatiently as I slipped mine on too. He hadn't noticed the helmets yet. Well, he would know soon enough, I thought mischievously.

I put on my leather jacket and eyed Sherlock. He would be fine if he fell off, I told myself. His (actually very sexy) bat-coat would protect him to an extent, as would the helmet. Speaking of which, "Here you are." I handed it to him.

"Why...?"

"Ducati." I said again. I stepped out the door, forcing him to follow me, and locked it. Bringing him to the garage, I opened the doors dramatically. "That,"I announced, pointing to the bike, "Is my child. It's the Bugatti Veyron SuperSport of motorcycles." He looked at me in a delightful mixture of horror and confusion.

"You can't expect me to ride that." He said. "Give me some money, I'll follow you in a cab."

"No such luck, Sherly. You're riding Rocky or you're not going."

He glared at me and shoved the helmet on his head. God, he was adorable when he was in a strop!

"Why Rocky?" He asked just before we left.

"Balboa. As in the Eye of the Tiger." I shook my head in despair at his questioning face and simply flipped my visor down. Then we were off, spitting gravel, and I felt a terrified detective grab hold of my waist. Smiling, I urged the bike to go even faster.

Bloodless and trembling, Sherlock still managed to swing himself gracefully down from the bike. He removed his helmet and tossed it to me with a look of disgust, saying "I hate that thing." I took my helmet off and released my hair in a cinematic way. "Yeah, but it lets me do that with my hair. Plus it kind of helps keep you alive if you fall off..."

"Obviously. Still hate it." I laughed and took out my phone.

"I'll Skype home so we can get Victor to tell us where we are."

I was busy talking at my phone when I heard Sherlock ask something.

"What?" I turned around to find him looking intently at the bike.

"I said, how much are these."

"Um... This one will set you back about £150,000."

"I'll have to look into it."

"Wait, I thought you hated it? You must have been terrified of dying!"

"Exactly."

"What?"

Sherlock came close to me, his face inches away from mine.

"Fear. Isn't. Boring." He whispered.

"And so many other things are?" I asked, lowering my voice to the same register.

"Mm." He murmured.

"Like this, huh? You must be ready to fall asleep right now." I smiled, leaning closer.

"Something like that." Our noses where close to touching.

"Uh, guys?" A disembodied voice came from somewhere below my line of vision.

"Oh hi Victor." I laughed as I brought my phone up to my face.

"So, um, I've seen quite a lot of the ground, but I kind of need to see the uh scenery. If you guys aren't busy or anything..."

Sherlock snatched the phone from my hand and showed Victor everything he thought was important. "Where?" He said tersely.

"Left." We followed Victor's instructions, but we couldn't find the house. Sherlock became more and more irritable as time went on, and his frustration was exacerbated by a massive car splashing his beloved coat with mud as it speeded past. After about an hour, I was ready to give up and go home. I looked up to see if it was going rain (it would have been the perfect excuse) and saw a strange black cloud gathering near us. I had started walking towards it, through a clump of trees, when I heard sirens screeching close by. Sherlock ran past me, shouting "Stay here!"

Within two minutes, he was back, coat flapping behind him as he motioned at me to follow him. With perfect accuracy, he navigated us back to the bike and vaulted on. Lagging slightly behind, I jumped on a second later and started it up. "Take the country roads, as fast as this thing can go!" I heard Sherlock say above the roar of the engine. I simply nodded and sped up, knowing that I couldn't fully follow his instructions or we would die turning a corner at 230 miles an hour.


	4. Chapter 4: Fading Scars

_**Author's Note: So, mystery conclusion here. No way the end of the story though! This (short) chapter ends on a cliffhanger and the next one will hurt. Like being gored by a unicorn. Anyway, thank you for reading, any comments or reviews welcome as per usual, and thanks for sticking with me this far. The sexy times are coming, you have my word for it ;)**_

I stopped in a secluded area near the entrance to Oxford, and turned to face Sherlock as we both flipped our visors up.

"What happened?"

"The house was on fire."

"When did it start?"

"Last night. There was no one inside, and since it was wooden house the fire brigade decided the best plan was to let it burn. The police were there, but they think it was an accident. The coiners have most likely escaped."

I didn't bother asking how he'd managed to find this all out in such a short space of time, or why we had had to flee, instead assuming that he had almost been spotted by an officer or something similar.

"So you don't think anyone would have seen them escape?" Even as I said the words, I had a revelation. Wondering if Sherlock was on the same track, I waited for his response.

"Unlikely. They would have gone in the night."

"Or, they managed to leave and piss off some bikers." I said triumphantly.

"What?" Sherlock looked at me sharply.

"3S86 MUD. The last three letters are surprisingly common on the number plates of 4x4s..."

"...And at the rate they were going, they're sure to have been spotted by speed cameras." He finished for me. I flipped my visor down, turning back round, and we started off for the house.

Sherlock hacked into the police's camera database in a worryingly short amount of time. Trying to not look too impressed, I leant over his shoulder and we scanned the screen for the number plate. We both saw it at the same time, and I said "Southampton!" just as he said "Portsmouth!"

"Southampton's closer." I reminded him. He tapped at the keyboard and brought up ferry times from Portsmouth and Southampton to Calais. The soonest ferry left Portsmouth at 5:30pm. I glanced at my watch even as I caught sight of Sherlock's 'I told you so' glance - there was no way we were going to make it. I sat down dejectedly and asked, "What do we do now?"

"Call Lestrade, and hope to God that it's his division." Sherlock smiled and started writing on a piece of paper. Going over to where Victor was sleeping peacefully on the sofa, the detective poked his arm and fluttered the paper in his face.

"Call this number and say exactly what I've written. Go to the nearest payphone."

Victor yawned groggily and took the paper from Sherlock.

"Who am I calling?" He asked sleepily.

"The police, of course." Came the impatient reply, "Now hurry up and leave. They could already be on the ferry."

I could see Victor was about to ask more questions, so I told him we would explain later and pushed him out the door, forgetting that he was injured and that I should really be the one going.

"Feel good?" I asked Sherlock. "You have just solved quite a complicated case after all."

"Time to wait for another one." He intoned, leaning back and closing his eyes.

"You really need to find some way of entertaining yourself, you know." I laughed.

"If you had a proper kitchen, maybe I'd be able to."

"A proper kitchen? What do you need, patisserie tools?"

"A microscope would be a start. Or a blowtorch. Or a gun. Speaking of which, where's my L9A1?"

"It's a Sig. And it's hidden. I like my house without the bullet holes in the walls, thanks. Anyway, what the hell do you need a microscope for?"

"Experiments. Obviously."

"What kind?"

"The kind that aren't completely, utterly and mind-numbingly boring."

This conversation was not going well for me.

"Right." I said, and decided to leave it at that. I looked at Sherlock, taking in the languor of his posture, the impression he gave of only ever being relaxed on the surface whilst his brain did the work of ten, and above all his beauty. It was a strange kind of beauty: none of his features should work, but they did. The irises -when visible - were altogether too pale, the cheekbones too sharp, the chin too angular, the hair just too... Crazy. But everything fitted in some odd way, and when all of that was combined with that mind, it was no wonder he made my pulse quicken with lust (not love, I reminded myself. Never love).

I sat, just absorbing the general Sherlock-ness of the man, and listened to his rhythmic, almost inaudible breathing. My eyes kept being drawn to his, though they were closed, and I couldn't work out why. The skin on his eyelids was almost translucent, yes, so I could see the network of veins running beneath, but that wasn't it. They were close to light purple in colour in the half-light, true, but that wasn't it either. Was it those freckles? Or... What were they? Not freckles, but tiny dots. Scars, dotted in patterns that were there and yet weren't at the same time, a patchwork of scars. Over each eyelid, like some horrible tribal marking. I leant in closer to him, holding my breath so that he wouldn't feel its warmth across his face. I was sure now. Scars.


	5. Chapter 5: 7 Percent Solution

_**Author's note: So, here it is... Buckle up, because this is going to be quite a ride! I hope you don't hate me too much, or think this is too over the top; I really felt that something like this had to happen for them to learn about each other. Thank you for reading, it means so much to me! May you all be showered in golden cupcakes and unicorn dust :)**_

_**WARNINGS: REFERENCES TO DRUG USE AND STRONG LANGUAGE. You have been warned: here be dragons!**_

I let myself collapse into the back of the chair, shuddering internally. Once I felt able to control my vocal chords, I asked, "You take drugs, Mr Holmes?" Only it wasn't a question, not really. Not when I knew the answer.

"Not for a while." He drawled, his eyes still closed. The bastard. The fucking BASTARD.

"Get. Out." The words were clipped, monosyllabic, but my voice still shook. "Out." I repeated with more force.

His eyes did open then, and slightly wider than usual, in mild surprise.

"Why?"

I let the anger take over, let the red wash across my vision and control me, and it was so much easier.

"Get yourself out of my fucking house before I feel tempted to call the police and reveal that the scumbag druggie they've been looking for is here." I said, my voice not shaking at all now.

"Oh please, it's been years." He said condescendingly. Of course, I was the one behaving irrationally.

"Out, now, Mr Holmes. Be thankful I'm letting you keep the clothes on your back." I spat at him. Why couldn't he just understand?

He cocked his head to one side, looking at me, through me. He came closer, closer than I wanted him to be. Not now, I pleaded. Not now, don't let him deduce now. Please, please just let him walk out of here so I don't have to see him again.

No such luck. "Hmmm." God, it had started. "You don't mind that I smoke. You don't mind that I lie. You don't mind that I'm rude and inconsiderate. You don't mind that I toy with you. So what is it about my old habits that has got you so worked up?" I tried to look away from his gaze.

"Go away." I said weakly, "Go away, you disgust me."

He still managed to get nearer, to keep his eyes locked in mine.

"Cocaine." He whispered. I flinched. He smiled. How could he smile? He knew he was right, of course. He had guessed. Well hats off to him. I would show him, the repulsive creature. I would anger him, force him to leave. It was my only choice.

"Seven percent solution." I answered,

"Injected through the eyeballs so that it wouldn't leave scars all over that paper-white skin on your arms. You must have someone that cares about you, then, though God only knows why they do. Someone who would have forced you to quit if they had noticed. But that person just wasn't clever enough to look at your eyelids, huh? Oh, how you must have laughed. Did you laugh, Sherlock? Thinking of the naivety of... Who could it be? Your brother? Your mother? Maybe even John Watson when they smiled and thought 'Ah well, at least our Sherlock's clean. Thank God for that, we always knew he was a good boy at heart' when all the while you were getting high, for... For... For I don't know what. To relieve boredom, I suppose. Because that's what it is, isn't it Sherlock, when people care about you, when emotions get involved. It's just plain boring, like being human. How could you? A brain like yours, that could cure and help, and you just let it rot for a few hours of crazy pleasure. I knew you were no angel, but this... This is the kind of thing a monster would do. So just go, okay? Just go."

I ended in a sob, an echo of my former self.

He looked ready to scream at me. It must have been the quip about Watson. Instead, an odd calm came over his features, a glint of understanding in his eyes."Were you falling in love with me?" He asked curiously.

"No." I spat. What an ego! He thought he'd worked it all out, that it was all due to one of those emotions he abhorred. Well, he was right in a way, but it wasn't love for him, the twat.

"Then why? Why the overreaction? It's not like I've been wandering around your house with syringes full of morphine in my arm!"

"You really want to know, you fucker?!" I screamed. "You haven't fucking deduced it yet?! Just look at me!" I wrenched myself away from him, closed my eyes and stood, quivering on the wooden floor.

I knew what he would be doing. I counted the seconds until..."Oh."

"Exactly." My eyes snapped open. "Took you long enough, didn't it? The great Sherlock Holmes, thought he knew everything. Well now you do. You never wondered why I lived here all alone, why I kept talking about people who you haven't seen? It was me, Sherlock. Me. I killed my father, whose cigars you smoked. I killed my mother, and my brother, whose clothes you're wearing. I think I killed my sister, but I don't even know. If she's lucky she's in a brothel somewhere in Amsterdam! I drove Robbie away. And I think you can guess who else I've killed. Or do I have to spell that out for you too? My darling, wonderful little cousin, who was so sweet before. And instead of helping, I ran away and I just got high. Over and over and over again. And I let it all happen, all of it. It was my fault. Do you understand that? All that blood... all on my hands. Even someone like you should be able to comprehend what it feels like, to be responsible for the destruction of the people you love. You more than anyone, in fact. So look at me, and know it like I do: I let my wonderful Richard become Jim."

I think it must be quite hard to render Sherlock speechless. Then again, it must be quite hard to process that The woman in whose house you were sheltering was Jim Moriarty's cousin, even for a brain like the detective's.

When the answer came, it wasn't what I was expecting.

"So, when you say you 'killed' your family, I suppose you mean indirectly? No need for me to investigate."

"Yes. Indirectly, if a broken heart isn't really a medical affliction."

"Oh, so it was just sentimentality? Not really a cause of death, no." God, I wanted to punch him. Not that I had expected sympathy, but this was unbelievable.

"**ONE**."

"What?"

"One broken heart. Otherwise, I'm sure you'll agree that a bullet through the brain and the glass of a glider cockpit through the stomach are both definite causes of death."

"Let me guess, father got a gun, brother got a plane? And your sister... Not worth worrying about. She's dead, I'm sure. They don't tend to be kind to crack whores in Amsterdam."

"Quite." He was being cold, yes, inhumanly so, but I wouldn't cry. I'd never cried at the thought of their deaths. Some things can't be helped by tears.

"And Jim. Jim Moriarty. Yet another bullet."

"Yes. I should thank you, I suppose, for driving him to it? London must be breathing a huge sigh of relief."

"Oh, breathing. Breathing is boring. No, you shouldn't thank me."

"Oh good." I said drily. "More things you consider to be boring. My nervous breakdown must rank as one of the highest on your boredom list. It does, after all, involve so many messy feelings."

"Not boring, as such. Illuminating, certainly. I knew Moriarty was an orphan, so I didn't bother looking for more family. Cousin. Hmm. Why didn't he kill you?"

"Me? The hopeless junkie? I was already half dead. He controlled the drugs trade, so he controlled me. I was never in a fit state to tell anyone about dear little Richard Brooke, even if I'd known about this new persona he'd created for himself. It was only a few months ago that Robbie forced me into rehab and left, and then you came. All bedraggled and needing a home, and like a fool I believed that if I helped you I would somehow clean the slate. And then you told your insane story about some crazy man you'd fought on a rooftop, and I suddenly thought, 'wow, that sounds so much like poor Richard' and so I checked your phone, and lo and behold, text after text about, from and to Jim Moriarty. And I looked it all up on the Internet, and I knew."

"You shouldn't believe everything you read. By the way, do you still want me out of your house?"

I laughed bitterly. Of course he had to ask that question. I had long given up on waiting for any sympathy or even tact from Sherlock, but he just kept pushing my perspective of how cruel he could be further and further.

And right now, there were two things I could do.

_In my head, I saw myself, lying broken in my bed at four in the afternoon a year from now, my hair stinking of smoke and the night before, as I stumbled to the toilet to throw up and all I could see and feel and think was 'Sherlock, Sherlock', beating in time to my pounding head and heart, so I reached for the bottle again, and when that wasn't enough for the powder by the sink, and even then I just sat, whacking my head against the bath, trying to make it stop... _

_And Sherlock, behind a dumpster, his pupils strangely dilated and a criss-cross of lines up and down his arms that if you looked closely were made of dots, with his clothes in tatters and the remains of the money he'd conned off someone lying beside him as he tried to get up to fight the tramp that held a broken bottle inches away from his bruised face, and he thought of John, and Mrs Hudson, and Mycroft, and maybe, just maybe, of me._

I saw it, and I wouldn't let it happen. I had driven too many people away, and if I still clung on to the hope that by saving Sherlock I could save myself, well... Who could blame me?

"Stay. We can be a pair. The two addicts. At least you've got a family."

"At least you're not a fugitive." Was that a... A joke? An intentional, not meant to make anyone feel like crap, straight up joke? From Sherlock?!

I dragged myself up from where I had crumpled on the floor, and poured two large glasses of brandy out. I handed one to Sherlock, who eyed it with disgust before downing it, and then I drank mine the same way.

"One last question." He said. "The gap between your rehabilitation and meeting me, it was only about two months? The RAF took you despite all the..." Here he gestured at my entire body, tear-stained face and all, "Because of your father and brother. And, for some strange reason you took to the Arts. But in two months you never read a newspaper, never saw the news? Never heard of Sherlock Holmes?" He sounded affronted, almost disappointed that his fame hadn't spread further.

"I'm a reformed junkie and morbid alcoholic, Sherlock. I know quite enough about how shit the world can be without having to listen to the news. Plus, I had things to do. Picking up the pieces of my life, remember?" I covered the lies by pretending to almost get angry again, and he noticed the false ire but not the acting. _Dear me Sherlock, you're slipping, _I whispered to him inside my head.

"Oh, so now you're going to ask me to leave? How typical." He sneered. I took a deep breath and looked at the man standing before me. He was a man, despite his attempts to convince me otherwise. And I wouldn't let him go, not just yet. I may have my own motives, but I wasn't endangering him by keeping one or two secrets.

"Stay." I said simply, and turned, going upstairs to wait for Victor before Sherlock saw in my eyes that I knew his weakness. Because if he saw that... Then nothing I could say would stop him from leaving.

We both heard the footsteps crunching on the gravel, and we met in the kitchen, sitting opposite each other as if nothing had happened. Despite our best efforts, the tension was still palpable and Victor was obviously confused when he came to tell us the good news. Nonetheless, he attempted to push through the awkward atmosphere by talking excitedly.

"Guys, I talked to Lestrade himself! They've closed all the ports and everything and we'll probably hear about their arrest soon!"

"All the ports? Overkill. Typical police." Sherlock murmured.

Victor's face fell. He had obviously been expecting high praise.

"You did brilliantly, Victor." I reassured the poor boy. "Are you feeling better?"

"Miles. I can hardly believe I only met you early this afternoon. I think I'll go lie down in my own bed and give up this whole starting a business idea. Umm." Victor paused, as if uncertain what to say next.

"You've been amazing, Victor. Think about it, you've actually apprehended two or more criminals! You definitely deserve a rest. I can take you home by bike if you want?" I winced at the patronising tone in my voice.

"No, I'll walk. I mean, thank you. But fresh air is good. Uh. Yeah."

"Goodbye, Victor." Sherlock piped up meaningfully.

"Yeah. Bye. Thanks." He continued hovering.

"Oh for God's sake!" Sherlock said, standing up in an exasperated manner. He shook Victor's hand in an oddly sensual manner, sliding his long fingers over the other man's hand slowly, and motioned for me to hug the now bright-red student. My goodbye was as (if not more) uncomfortably close to sexual as Sherlock's, and Victor choked out a "Bye!" before stumbling away, walking strangely.

The minute he had gone, Sherlock and I caught each other's eye and burst out laughing.

"The poor boy didn't know where to look!" I managed between bouts of giggles. "That was unbelievably cruel!"

"Well, it certainly got rid of him!" Sherlock was just as hysterical as I was.

I finally calmed down. "Ah, he'll probably be wondering for years whether or not he's gay after that handshake." I smiled, wiping the tears of laughter from my eyes.

The smile abruptly disappeared from Sherlock's face. "I'm surprised he let someone like you hug him. The way you dress, he had no way of knowing where you've been." His voice was cutting, and he obviously meant the insult to strike home, but it rang false. I was puzzled - why would he go from relaxed and amused to cruel so quickly? Had he... Had he thought I was trying to make fun of him with my comment?

"That was unnecessary. I wasn't making fun of you, you know. If anything, I'm kinda jealous of the way you managed to turn on a straight guy more by lightly touching his hand than I managed to by crushing my entire body against him." I tried to keep my tone light, but I found it strange how I had to reassure this man like he was a child.

Sherlock spent the good part of two minutes staring at me intensely. I forced myself to hold his gaze, but despite my best efforts he remained completely inscrutable.

Suddenly, he stood up. "I'm exhausted. I'm finding you far too hard to read, and lack of sleep is the only suitable hypothesis."

As he made to leave, I reached for his shoulder, my touch firm yet not insistent. If he truly was tired, all he better. I was never going to beat him when he was on top form, so I may as well take advantage of his weakness now, while I had the chance.

"I know that the dynamics have changed, because of..." I swallowed hard. "Because of Richard. But just so you know," here I leant in closer to him, and we found ourselves where we had been so many times before, with our lips almost touching. I ran my fingers lightly to his collarbone and then down his side, to his angular hip before continuing, "the game's still on."

"Oh, I know." He replied, his voice a rough whisper. "The stakes have never been higher."

He gently removed my hand from his hip and used it to caress his own neck and throat. My lips were white as I kept them tightly closed to stop a moan escaping. I pulled my fingers from his, continuing of my own accord down to where the first button of his shirt was done up. Reluctantly, I stopped and forced my hands back to my sides. A flash of annoyance mixed with a generous amount of lust crossed Sherlock's face before the cool and collected mask slid back to its usual place to hide his true emotions.

"Until tomorrow, then."

"It creeps on at such a petty pace." I quipped, deliberately misquoting. He smiled his sideways smile and left for bed, leaving me to silence the voice in my head that was telling me exactly what I wanted to do to that man, and (more importantly, in the voice's view) what I wanted him to do to me.

**_Sooo... I hope that wasn't too bad, and just some thank yous before you all go and enjoy those cupcakes: Thank you to KaiFukugawa and RowlingOnTheRiver and FrostIvy for their reviews and therefore helping improve as a writer. You're all three of you awesome! More of you follow their example please :P _**

**_Thank you to everyone who's favourited the story and me as well, you may all help yourselves to virtual kittens and puppies on your way out. _**


	6. Chapter 6: Pianists' Fingers and Eclairs

_**Author's Note: Here's a little bit to tide you over until the next chapter. The next one is going to be pure smut, the culmination of all these irritating power games they've been playing. This one has all urge usual warnings: Sherlock being stupidly attractive and talented etc... Enjoy!**_

Over the following two weeks, I was incredibly busy. Spare moments were few and far between, and when they came were spent idly dreaming about Sherlock. Not good when you're trying to remember lines, or keep a straight face as a superior officer shouts at you. Especially when not all of my day dreams could be quantified as innocent... Many a time I had to mentally shake myself as I found images of those long fingers or that pale skin in my head. I could feel myself breaking down, and I knew something had to be done. Strangely enough, it seems Sherlock had exactly the same idea. I suppose that great minds think alike... But then again, fools never differ.

On Friday, I hurried home exhausted. I had been slowly and unintentionally torturing myself for what seemed like forever with thought after thought of the great detective, and I was finally too tired to resist the onslaught of my own treacherous imagination. Reaching the gate, I went through as quietly as possible and sat down on the grass in the garden somewhere where I couldn't be seen from the house, basking in the sunlight. Letting the warmth wash over me, I lay back and sprawled across the grass, eyes closed. Within moments, a picture materialised in my head. It was sinful, really, how fast my brain could work in this situation. I could picture every detail - the eyes blown out and stormy grey with lust, the hollow underneath the cheekbones lightly shadowed by the sun, the Cupid's bow slightly reddened from insistent kisses, the long white throat that led to perfectly formed collarbones... At this point I had to imagine the rest, because I had no data on which to base my idea of his torso apart from what I could make out underneath too-tight shirts. I thought that his skin would be just as alabaster as his face, but chiselled and muscular despite the slimness of his build. There would be a little definition around his narrow hips, and then his arse would appear (yes, I did just turn him so his arse was facing me inside my head), incongruously full and absolutely stupidly attractive. And then those long thighs, making up those graceful limbs, and then he would turn, and I would see what I had only felt...

I was woken gently but insistently from my reverie by music coming from the house. Surprised that Sherlock had managed to work out how to turn on the radio in spite of its complicated controls, I rose and went to the kitchen door. I went through to the living room only to find that the radio was off. Then a mental lightbulb lit and I suddenly realised that Sherlock was playing the piano. Could he play the piano? Evidently, yes. Better than most of Classic FM's pianists, anyway. Tiptoeing to the music room, though knowing that he had most likely heard me come in anyway, I sat on the stairs and listened. He was playing one of my favourite pieces, and he was doing a better job of it than I ever had, years of practice be damned. It was short, but unbearably sweet, and I practically ached when he stopped playing and came out to look at me critically.

"Of course. Sentiment, I should have known." He said, but not completely unkindly. I rose, smiling weakly.

"If you don't want sentiment, don't play Tchaikovsky to a highly-strung woman!" I joked pathetically.

His head cocked to one side, he simply continued staring. I pulled myself together mentally. This wouldn't do. There was a game to play, and this was Sherlock Holmes!

"How long have you been learning the piano, anyway?" I asked to direct his gaze away from me.

"Since this morning. I broke one of the strings on the violin."

I gaped. "This morning?! Sherlock, that was a Grade 8 piece! Even Lang Lang wouldn't be able to learn that fast!"

"Who's Lang Lang?"

"Sherlock..." I said warningly. He had to be having me on. He must know who Lang Lang was, he listened to so much classical music. It would be like his army doctor friend not knowing what a femur was!

Sherlock grinned quickly, looking at his fingers and then at me.

"Well, I suppose I have an advantage. I have incredibly good reach and dexterous hands." He said it casually, but it was a comment calculated to have a certain effect. The mood changed abruptly, as two pairs of eyes were drawn to his fingers. Those very digits then reached up to my hair and pulled a blade of grass from it, lingering a fraction of a second longer than they perhaps should. As he brought his hand down, it brushed oh so nonchalantly against my shoulder, and a bolt of electricity shot straight through me. If my mouth hadn't been shut, something along the lines of "Nngh" would definitely have slipped out. As it was, I met his eyes and matched heat with heat, brushing a stray curl from his forehead and then slipping past him, letting my hand trail across his torso and waist as I 'accidentally' stumbled on the steps. "Do join me next door for some tea." I suggested lightly. "You must be exhausted after all that piano playing."

"Oh, believe me, my fingers can stand much more... Strenuous activities than that."

"I'm sure. It's strange, isn't it, we all seem to have those parts of our body we can use constantly without getting tired." I paused very slightly, letting his imagination work. "For me, it's my mouth." It was almost imperceptible, but I was watching for it - his jaw was a little slacker than it had been a second earlier, and his pupils mildly wider. Perfect. Round one to me.

Opening the fridge in the kitchen, I saw something I should have noticed earlier in the week - apart from what I had eaten, all the food I was buying was not being consumed. I turned around to face Sherlock, who had regained his composure and was now elegantly splayed across a chair near the table, doing God knows what with my iPod.

"Sherlock, when was the last time you ate?" He looked up distractedly and thought about it.

"I have a feeling I ate some raisins yesterday. Or maybe that was Wednesday..."

He was expecting a lecture on the dangers of not eating, I could tell. So instead, I picked up my bag and took out some patisseries I had bought. Putting them on the table in from of Sherlock, along with two plates, I just said "Eat."

Never a hypocrite, I started tucking into an eclair. Unbeknownst to me, this actually fitted very well with my plan. Over the years I had cultivated the skill of eating things rather more seductively than perhaps strictly necessary, and the shape of an eclair does lend itself to suggestive consumption. By the time I had finished my first patisserie, Sherlock had wolfed down two cakes and a scone with a dazed look on his face. Still gloriously innocent of what I was doing, I split the last millefeuille in half and gave one piece to him without even waiting to see if he wanted it. Cutting something that contains that much cream in half is a tricky business, and I naturally managed to cover my entire hand in cream. Midway through licking it off, I noticed Sherlock poised with his fork frozen on its journey to his mouth and his eyes practically glazed over. Finally it dawned on me exactly what I was doing, and so I stopped and apologised. As if! I continued my previous activity, with increased enjoyment, even emitting an almost inaudible moan as I sucked the last bit of cream off my index finger. Then I had my entire piece of cake to eat. I finished it in my own time, making an even bigger show of it than with the eclair, and when I had finally finished reached over to grab a napkin. Long pale fingers stopped me, and a gentle thumb brushed a crumb from the corner of my mouth. Instead of letting food go to waste (yes, that is an awful excuse, but I have to justify my actions somehow) I enveloped his finger and sucked at it. Before he could fully understand what was happening, I had released it with a soft sigh, saying "That was so good, I'll have to buy them again."

"Yes, we can't have your mouth losing stamina, can we?" A smile ghosted across Sherlock's face as he spoke.

"That would be a disaster! Think of all the things I need it for." I had a feeling that Sherlock probably had thought about this extensively, but he managed to control his poker face admirably well. I took his plate, placing it on top of mine and stood up to go to the dishwasher. By an enormous 'coincidence' Sherlock stood up at exactly the moment that I was about to slip around his chair, and we collided. Suddenly I was pressed against the island counter, breathless and unable to move due to being pinned by a very large expanse of Sherlock. I had put the plates down next to me in an uncharacteristic moment of grace, and he reached over to get them for me, every inch the chivalrous gentleman. Except that his leaning over meant more of him pressed against me, and I could feel every muscle. I was suddenly very conscious of the fact that we were only separated by two thin layers of material. I swear I could even feel his nipples, and I really was on the verge of moaning into him and giving up this elaborate charade when he stepped back nimbly, plates in hand. He passed them to me, noting my flushed cheeks and heavy breathing with an amused glance, before flopping down exactly where he had been before, iPod miraculously in hand once more. I wanted to scream - and I hadn't even been able to check if he was turned on. Dammit. Round two to the genius.

I wanted to play the piano to calm myself down, but after Sherlock's earlier performance I would have just been embarrassing myself. I wanted to listen to music, but that same man had my iPod and I was too lazy to go upstairs and fetch my laptop. So I settled for the most mundane thing I could possibly think of, a thing which had the added bonus of benefitting Sherlock - baking.

For the next hour or so I bustled around the kitchen silently, making cakes. Finally, I got bored of waiting for Sherlock to make conversation, so I went to get my laptop to put some music on. I was so engrossed in listening to music and piping one of the cakes that I almost jumped out of my skin when a rich baritone spoke right next to my ear. I laughed at my own terror and said, "You trying to kill me?"

"No, I would be able to think of far more effective ways of shutting your brain down if that was my plan." How on earth did he manage to make that sound sexy? He was talking about killing me, for crying out loud! Maybe it was just my dirty mind thinking of wonderfully pleasurable ways he would be able to stop me thinking coherently... "I was merely asking you what you wanted me to do." Sherlock continued.

I was so shocked that I took a second to process the fact that I should be responding.

"You, you want to help? Help me? Bake?!"

"Evidently." Ah yes. I was the one speaking rubbish.

"Of course you do. Right. Well. Umm... You could make the drizzle?"

Sherlock looked at me blankly.

"Ah, that involves putting honey in a saucepan with some ginger." I elaborated. He had obviously been observing me more closely than I had thought, as he knew where all the utensils were kept. Only one thing worried me - why was he doing this? What was his plan?

He looked wonderfully bemused by the honey as he attempted to pour it into the saucepan on top of the ginger. He was going for the 'bung-the-whole-of-it-in-and-hope-to-God-it-turns- out-okay' approach to cooking, which doesn't tend to work with something as viscous as honey. I watched him struggle in amusement, waiting to see how the world's only consulting detective would deal with this situation. Naively, I didn't realise what was going on until it was far, far too late. Of course he wouldn't not know how to pour honey. Of course he wouldn't offer to help with anything unless he had a devious plan. This was Sherlock fucking Holmes, and he knew exactly what he was doing. Which was mainly to drag long white fingers through the pot in a pathetic attempt to reach the last dredges, and then to oh-so-slowly lick each finger in turn, golden honey drizzling between those soft, kissable lips into a mouth that I already knew was warm and pliant. And then he casually washed his hands, and stretched like a cat in a way that I'm surprised didn't cause all his clothes to rip and fall off his body. It was less of a stretch and more of a kind of unfolding, with specific parts of him thrusting forward and falling back. By this time, I was breathing heavily. He looked over to me, a glint of triumph in his eyes. "Is there anything else you'd like me to do?" He purred.

Through sheer willpower, I resisted the urge to say "Me." He wasn't going to win that easily. I reached over and tasted the drizzle, running my index finger through my teeth on the pretext of tasting his handiwork. I let a small bead of honey stay caught on my bottom lip."No, that's fine. Melt it slowly now, and then help me with this icing." He sauntered over, noticing the honey. I counted to three in my head. Right on cue, his finger came out and deftly ran across my lip. "Honey." He said perfunctorily.

"Is it gone?" I asked innocently, licking every inch of my lip apart from where a trace of it remained.

He shook his head. After a moment of watching me 'struggle' he sighed in exasperation and his tongue flickered out to catch my bottom lip. I could feel the sweetened warmth of his breath on my mouth, and I leant in a fraction of an amount so that he slipped in. He was now finally kissing me properly. After a second of heaven, I broke it. I had to stay on top, I had to! Even if it was ludicrously painful. "Thanks." I said with a casual smile, as if we hadn't just been on the verge if tearing each others' clothes off. I turned to pick up the bowl of icing, and 'accidentally' fell against Sherlock. He caught me swiftly, and I wriggled as if to regain my balance, feeling him hard and growing against the small of my back. I stood up straight again, apologising but letting him know with a small sideways smile that I had felt what he was trying to hide.

I was leading 2:1.


	7. Chapter 7: Lethe-wards Sunk

**_Author's Note: So here it is, the M-rated chapter... I hope it lives up to everyone's expectations! Warnings for explicit sexual content, mind games and power games during sex (but nothing too risky, just a little bit of making use of a tie to secure wrists and all consensual, obviously) and Sherlock being too darned clever and sexy. If any if this bothers you, feel happy in the knowledge that you're a better person than me, and join us next chapter. You won't be missing much plot ;)_**

With an almost terrifying growl he pushed me away from him and pressed his mouth against mine, kissing me like he wanted to punish me, hands running everywhere on my body. I was moaning and deftly undoing his shirt, feeling him straddling me. He pulled my hands away and pushed them to my sides, dragging his teeth lightly along my neck and then nipping my wrists. He started to undress me slowly, and when I tried to help he shot daggers at me and kissed me bruisingly. I would have done it again for another kiss, but I felt that he had some kind of plan and so I obeyed, letting him take control. Soon I was just in my underwear straining for more of his touch, as he danced his fingertips everywhere that wasn't covered by material, making me shiver with want. Then the bra came off and I moaned loudly as cold air hit me, only to moan more vehemently as his warm mouth closed over my nipple. I almost screamed in pleasure when he bit it lightly, and bucked into him when he started a path down my stomach, kissing and licking his way to the last scrap of silk left on my body. I was on fire, and I was being mercilessly teased. Sherlock knew what he was doing far too well, and I wanted him so much that I was on the verge of begging. I tried to reach down and twine my fingers in his hair, to pull him closer into me and make him let me go over the edge, but he pushed my wrists back once more, ceasing everything he was doing. I practically whined at the loss of feeling, shots of need for him burning through me. I looked up at Sherlock wantonly, biting my lip and willing him to continue, promising him everything he was obviously dying for if he would only put his wonderful mouth where I needed it. Instead he put it next to my ear. "If you think I'm going to be easy on you..." He growled throatily, lightly cupping his hand round the base of my neck, "Remember your 'emotion test'. Remember your little sofa performance. Remember the constant brushing against me. Remember. The bloody. Eclair. And then prepare yourself. Because I am going to get you back for all of that, and I am going to make you beg." He tightened his hand a little at the hollow of my throat as he kissed and bit the rest of my neck. Once again, he made his way down to my abdomen, stopping when he reached my underwear, and descending to my thigh. His hands brushed up, almost to the top, and then travelled back down. It was so slow, so seductive, and all done with a tiny, teasing smile. He traced the contour of the material that was my one remaining token to decency with a single finger, then with two, and then with three. All I needed was for him to hook those fingers at my waistband and pull, but he wasn't having any of it. I closed my eyes, trying desperately to remain calm and breathe slowly. I was failing to count to five when I felt sharp incisors at the hollow between my right hip and stomach inching my underwear down to about mid thigh. Then the same happened on my left side. Back to my right. Then my left. And in this excruciating way, Sherlock Holmes finally got me completely naked.

Before I could even breathe a sigh of relief he was back at my mouth, duelling with my tongue. I put all my concentration into getting oxygen and kissing him at the same time, and so I didn't see his master stroke coming. Just as I was almost blacking out from the amazing kissing, two very long and talented fingers plunged straight into me. I screamed and arched my back as an equally talented tongue joined them, and he began licking and sucking me with a vengeance. It was snaking, flicking, then gentle and then rough. He would stop and then start again only to stop once more. It was almost too much to bear, too much for my already fragile restraint. He had known it the whole time, of course, known that I was holding back. He wanted something, but I was to far gone to pay it any attention. Whatever he wanted, I needed it more. Grabbing a fistful of his curls, an "Oh FUCK yes!" Tore itself from my throat. I had gone from thinking it was too much to begging for more, and the smug air was practically wafting off Sherlock in waves. "I will make you pay if you don't fucking make me come right now, you smug bastard!" I growled, so close now. Panting and keening I thrust my hips towards that delicious tongue. Teetering on the edge, I was helpless when he suddenly stopped and rocked back in his heels. I was about to whine at the interruption when the sane part of me finally resurfaced and I opened my eyes. The infuriating man was just sitting there, inspecting my limp body, waiting for me to do something. Just what the hell did he want? Then it all clicked: how he always held my wrists when we kissed, the way he tried to pin me down, it all pointed to one thing. So I sighed deeply, as if lamenting the fact that he was no longer lavishing attention on me, and I lightly placed a palm over his eyes, reaching for something with my other hand. Finding his tie, I expertly tied it round both my wrists using my teeth, not entirely surprised to find that Sherlock still had his eyes closed when I removed my hand. I bit my lip and asked him to look at me in begging tones. A low noise vibrated deep in his throat, but he made no move apart from opening his eyes and blinking twice, breathing raggedly. I slowly lifted my hands above my head, effectively pinning myself down."Please, Mr Holmes. Please. I want you. I need you to let me come. I need it!" My tone of voice was carefully calculated, and if I sounded desperate it wasn't all acting. He fell on me and renewed his earlier attack with increased vigour. He added a third finger and curled it, using all the tricks he knew until shock waves rippled through my abdomen and the force of orgasm momentarily ripped me from the world of the conscious.

I could practically feel Sherlock's arrogant grin before I'd even opened my eyes. _Something just has to be done about that_, I told myself. _It's payback time_. Looking up, I noticed that he was now standing up, and that the top of his thigh lay conveniently next to my head. What a coincidence. Rolling off the sofa, I fell to my knees, hands still tied. I leant in, mouth at the level of his cock. Then I breathed. One. Two. Three. Four. Just close enough for him to feel the heat through his dishevelled trousers, just enough for him to be very aware of my presence. He seemed to finally realise that I wasn't going to do anything else until he made a move, and I saw his hands undo his belt buckle, fluttering like white butterflies. He undid his trousers and pushed them down whilst I stayed exactly where I was. Once all I could see were his silk boxers, I leant in again. I put the tip of my tongue out as if to meet the straining material, and licked my bottom lip instead. I did it again, teasing him. The third time I did mouth the end if his cock, but only for a few seconds. I made my mouth pliant, and I heard a susurration above me. "Jesus."  
I almost smiled - it was one of the only times I had ever heard Sherlock swear or blaspheme. I was going to make damn sure it wasn't the last. I looked up at him through my eyelashes, contriving to look as innocent as possible.  
"You're going to have to push those down yourself, Mr Holmes. I'm afraid I'm all tied up." I lifted my wrists up, as if he needed a reminder. His chest was rising and falling faster, but I kept eye contact as I licked my lip again. Suddenly, his hands flashed down and the last bit of material separating us was gone. I flicked my tongue out to just barely touch the crown of his cock, and he groaned loudly. Another gentle, teasing brush of my tongue had Sherlock's hips moving towards my mouth, but as quickly as they advanced, I retreated, keeping the same distance between us. I continued as before, occasionally swirling my tongue around the head of his cock, and trailing up and down the shaft, waiting for him to say something, to tell me what to do. So far all I could hear were small moans, and a quick look up revealed that his eyes were half-lidded. In one swift movement I hollowed my cheeks and sucked the whole of him into my mouth. I heard a gasp and pulled back just as quickly as I had swooped in. I rocked back and looked at him one more time. "Is that alright, Mr Holmes?" I asked quietly. His eyes held a strange look that was halfway between murder and utter, all-encompassing lust. His hand was suddenly in my hair, grasping but not too violently. A reminder. "Just fucking suck me." He growled. I practically died on the spot. What the hell was it about this ridiculous man saying incongruous things that had me wanting to make him beg for mercy? I deftly swallowed him again, learning very fast what made him tighten his fingers and sigh into me. I moaned around him, making my entire throat vibrate, and tore a strange keening sound from him. I kept going, increasing the pace. He hit the back of my throat and I held him there, enjoying the feeling of forcing this man to speak in incoherent groans. I knew he was close, could feel him swelling slightly, and I really wanted to torture him more, to make him feel what he had made me feel. But there was plenty of time for that later. So I lightly raked my hand down his side to catch his attention, waiting until he locked eyes with me before withdrawing my mouth and speaking oh so quietly. "Are you close? I want your come, sir." Then I latched on as he thrust into my mouth and came with a roar. When he had finished, I stood up, untying my hands, and finally allowed myself a smile.

Sherlock stumbled back and was about to sit down on the sofa when I took his hand and led him from the room. It was a testament to how far gone he was that he didn't even resist as I took him up the stairs to my bedroom. Closing the door, I pushed him onto the bed and sat on top of him, kissing him heatedly as I ground against his abdomen. He seemed to come alive again, fingertips travelling around my back and gripping my waist. I wriggled again, but he quickly broke off the kiss and growled, "There's no way I'm letting you start that. You'll continue thinking you're actually in control." He lifted me up and threw me onto my back, then rolled on top of me, pressing against me urgently. I reached down to caress his cock and placed small bites on his left shoulder, feeling him growing under my hand. I kissed him savagely at the same time as squeezing him and he went limp for a split second. It was all the time I need to flip us so that I was once again above him, this time with my hips hovering two or three inches from where his cock stood to attention. In one movement I plunged myself down onto him. Leaning down, I whispered, "But Sherlock, I _am_ in control." before raising up and dropping down again and again, at long last fucking Sherlock Holmes.

I gasped as he thrust into me again. I might have been the one on top, but we were both in ecstasy. Besides, I had a feeling that I wouldn't be where I was for very long. Slipping down his shaft and rotating my hips, I was surprised to feel myself being lifted off him. I was about to protest when Sherlock pointed to the floor and simply said, "Now." I started smiling, thinking I could easily convince him to let us continue what we had been doing, but he stared me down and said somewhat more forcefully, "Now. Don't make me get the tie." I shivered both at the commanding sound of his deep voice and the thought of being tied up for him again. It was a shiver of excitement, not of fear, and he knew it. I did as he asked, resting on my hands and knees on the carpet, sensing rather than seeing him. He came up behind me and paused just at my entrance. I felt him lean over, his torso practically laid over my back. I turned my face towards his. "Te voir me donner des ordres est étonnant. Enfin, dérangeant, je dirais. Tu… "  
He cut me off roughly "Tai-toi. Je vais te faire hurler."  
He pushed into me, deeper than he had been before, and I almost came on the spot. The combination of his voice and his perfect cock made me want to scream and moan and die, all at the same time. I moaned for him to go harder, faster, begging for more. He complied, his fingertips digging into my hips as I lost all will to do anything but feel like this for the rest if my life. In some small part of me I felt ashamed at my utter submission, but I gleaned some consolation from the fact that Sherlock must have felt the same way, judging by the wonderfully obscene comments pouring from him, descriptions of what he was going to do to me in various different languages. I could swear I even caught some Latin before the friction grew too delicious for me to bear and I lost concentration as I came for the second time that night. Sherlock wasn't far behind, spilling into me as I floated halfway between heaven and the most sordidly wonderful level of hell,and it wasn't his last orgasm either. I distinctly remember taking control at least twice more before we collapsed exhausted and went to sleep, somewhere around 5 in the morning.

When I woke the next morning, I had a blissful moment of not knowing anything but that I was home and in my bed. Having woken up as many times as I had not knowing where the hell I was, I had learnt to appreciate the beauty of my ceiling. Slowly I began to feel aches in parts of my body, and glancing down at my wrists I was finally reminded of what I had done the night before by the mixture of lines and bite marks. I smiled in remembrance and gave myself a few minutes to relive the entire experience before turning onto my side to see if Sherlock was there. He stood out against the dark purple sheets like a diamond on black silk, sleeping soundly. I knew just the way to wake him up...

**_Sooo... Good? Bad? Ugly? Please leave your thoughts and take some exquisitely read poetry and cronuts (croissant/doughnut hybrids, yes, you heard me. Croissant. And doughnut. In one.) on your way out. Thanks for being awesome :)_**

**_P.S The French meant: 'Seeing you give me orders is extremely surprising. At least, strange, I would say. You...' 'Shut up. I'm going to make you scream.'_**


	8. Chapter 8: The Hunt Begins

_**Author's Note: Guess who appears in this chapter... For all those of you who skipped last chapter, this is a direct continuation. Only a teensy bit of mention of the night before, otherwise no warnings. I don't think... Enjoy!**_

Coming back from my shower, I waited with my head against the window, fully dressed now, for Sherlock to come back from his. Thinking and breathing deeply, I was startled when I heard a familiar buzz. Who could it be? No one called me on that phone anymore. I picked up, and before I had time to say hello a smooth and plush male voice started speaking.  
"Ah, Miss Carlton. Or perhaps I should give you your proper title? No, your stage name will do. Some might argue that you do not deserve your family name after your earlier escapades. You're awake I see. I do hope you had an enjoyable evening."  
"Who is this?" I asked, only just managing to keep the panic out of my voice.  
"An... How should I put it? Interested party."  
"Interested in whom?"  
"Sherlock Holmes. And you, in relation to him."  
I almost laughed in relief.  
"Oh! Thank God."  
"Excuse me?" The voice sounded ruffled and had lost a little of its unfazable quality.  
"You're just the brother."  
"Just? I assure you, I can be rather... Aggressive in my protection of Sherlock." There was an edge to his voice now, but it was forced.  
"Oh yes, very dangerous I'm sure, seeing as you control the government and all, but considerably less dangerous than the others."  
"Miss Carlton, the very fact that you're so blasé about this call simply highlights just how much you need my help."  
"That would be nice, yes. I could always do with more 007 in my life."  
He ignored my quip and continued as if I hadn't spoken.  
"I presume you have a plan? You will, of course, need to hurry my brother out of the shower and leave... What was the address again?" A tinny female voice on the end of line spoke my entire address and postcode.  
"Yes, that. You will need to leave, preferably under a pseudonym."  
I expected him to know things like my address, but he even knew that Sherlock was in the shower... Of course, he could just be guessing, but something told me that men like him didn't guess.  
"Could you provide us with passports?"  
"Undoubtably. However, I do have a few conditions. Firstly, you must be aware that the relationship between him and I is rather strained. I would kindly ask you not to question my motives for doing this."  
"Mr Holmes, you're lecturing me on dysfunctional families? You know better, surely."  
"Even so... I would like your word that Sherlock will not know. I told him that I would not offer assistance when I saw how badly Captain Watson was affected by his disappearance."  
"I won't breathe a word."  
"Thank you. Secondly, kindly control yourself around him, and try to behave appropriately. We do not require a miniature Sherlock. One is quite enough."  
Mortified, I answered and quickly changed the subject.  
"We're using protection. What next?"  
"Lastly, I would be grateful if you helped him return to his friends and family in London. The aforementioned army doctor is growing quite irate, and it is becoming more and more difficult to keep up this charade of grief, especially around close friends." I could guess who these 'close friends' were quite easily - a certain Detective Inspector, perhaps? But there was an undertone to the man's voice, and I could read between the lines. He knew Sherlock couldn't go back whilst London was still in the clutches of Richard's helpers.  
"You want me to help him round up and kill Moriarty's operatives." I said flatly.  
"If you must put it so inelegantly, yes."  
"No. This is ridiculous. Are you seriously trying to turn my life into some sick reality version of Mission: Impossible?"  
"Miss Carlton, would you rather see the men responsible for over half of the crime in London dead, or Sherlock lying on your carpet with a bullet through his brain?" He spoke coldly, as if discussing whether I would rather stay in or go out for dinner.  
"I've only just started rebuilding my life here. I can't just up and leave! The squadron needs me. I've started acting again. I can't leave, Mr Holmes. I won't."  
"Do not try to patronise me, Miss Carlton. Being an extra in small student productions under an alias and following the orders of a divorced misogynistic man with halitosis and an unpleasant habit of leering at you? Hardly a life, I would say, especially when considered in the light of the past. Agree to my terms and leave now, and I will make sure that your house remains relatively untouched, and that when you return you can either return to the Air Force at a higher rank or forget about them. Otherwise, you and my brother will most likely be found dead within a month. I hardly need to mention the matter of personal revenge - I'm sure it has already occurred to you. " As much as I hated this strange mixture of bribery and emotional blackmail, the man had a point. I was hardly enjoying myself here, and a holiday around Europe would be anything but boring, especially if I was acting as an impromptu assassin. And he was right about the... other matter as well. With reluctance, I finally said, "Done. I'll send you the pictures for the new passports later this afternoon. We'll go to Paris first. I presume Sherlock knows where to get information on these people's whereabouts?"  
"Indeed. Thank you Miss Carlton."  
"Anytime. Goodbye Mycroft Holmes."  
"Goodbye. Oh and Miss Carlton? When all of this unpleasantness is over, do return to the stage. I very much appreciated your Daisy Buchanan, and your Beatrice is one of the finest I've ever seen."  
He hung up, leaving me with a sense that despite my earlier thoughts, this man was a far more formidable opponent than the remnants of Richard's web of criminals.

Not long after, I heard Sherlock's quiet footfalls and steeled myself before I turned, knowing that he wasn't going to like what I had to say. He noticed my expression straight away and groaned before flinging himself on the bed.  
"Neither if us is going to enjoy this conversation Sherlock." I began, sitting gently next to him.  
"Oh joy. If it's going to be tedious and we're both going to hate it, why don't we do something far more fun..." His voice changed subtly on the word 'fun', and his hand started caressing the bruises on my wrists. I stilled it before he could convince me to take the easy way out.  
"Sherlock..." I started warningly.  
"Fine. I'm listening." He said reluctantly.  
"I'm going to need to dye my hair."  
"What?!" He sat up in surprise. "You want to talk about your hair?" He made as if to leave, but I quickly spoke again.  
"They'll be coming, Sherlock. You know they will. Rich...Moriarty's men know about me, or they will soon. We need to leave, and we both have to be unrecognisable. You're going close-cut auburn, and I'm going brunette. And we both need new clothes, and passports. We're going to Paris."  
This time he took the time to think before answering. "And where do you suppose we get the money and the connections for new I.D?" He didn't sound as condescending as he might have, though. I had surprised him too many times - he was becoming desensitised.  
"I can take care of it without going through Moriarty's people, trust me. Meanwhile, we're both going to a salon. I may not have many friends left after everything I've done, but I know one or two women who can help, albeit grudgingly."  
"I suppose you have the money to fund all this?"  
"Of course. I though you were a genius, Sherlock: look at my house!"  
"Drugs aren't cheap, and you still work."  
"I was never far gone enough to pawn my mother's jewels for cocaine, Sherlock. And who said what about his brain stagnating without work?"  
He gave me a 'look' but I only laughed and stood up.  
"Do I need to explain further?" I asked.  
"Hardly. Your money can help me do what I was planning on doing anyway." Sherlock still looked unhappy, probably about the haircut. Deciding that the only way to appease him was to distract him, I leant in close to him and kissed him softly. "I hope it's not just my money you're after. I seem to recall quite a lot of French being spoken last night, and every time you open your mouth in Paris, I'll be thinking of how you looked the last time you said each word..." I was forced to trail off as he kissed me harder. Knowing that this could very easily result in us never leaving the house ever again, I used all my reserves of willpower and straightened up. Sherlock pouted, even as I smiled at his petulance.  
"Come on! We're taking Rocky."  
He smiled too, and brightened up considerably. Such a little kid!

That afternoon I had the pleasure of dragging Sherlock around clothes shops. He couldn't hide his contempt for the jeans and shirts I suggested he buy, but he thankfully realised the necessity of a change in appearance, so his complaining was limited to being exceedingly rude to all of the shop assistants. The first port of call had been the salon, where two of my old friends had reluctantly spent their lunchtime dyeing and cutting our hair. They had fawned over the both of us when we first entered, but after I had taken them aside and explained the limitations (mainly that they weren't allowed to talk to Sherlock) they had grown immediately colder. Luckily, their anger towards me didn't have a negative effect on their work, and we both left looking surprisingly different. Sherlock could now have been any age between late twenties and early thirties, and looked distinctly more friendly and approachable (or in his opinion 'like a more attractive and slimmer Mycroft'), while I looked about the same age and vaguely like Audrey Hepburn. Anyone seeing us together would think us a youngish couple, which was exactly what we wanted. Except that Sherlock was still making comments about the poor quality of the shirts we had just bought, and plaintively telling me that he had never worn anything that hadn't been custom-made in his life. Shaking my head in wonder at his ridiculously sheltered upbringing, I led him to a photo booth to get the photos done for Mycroft. I couldn't understand how anyone could spend their lives having not ever worn jeans. I personally came from a rich family, but university had taught me not to go around dressed in a cocktail dress the whole time. Not that I had done that before anyway. But surely Sherlock had had the same experience? Or maybe he hadn't gone to uni. The more time I spent with him, the more I understood that there was still so much I didn't know about him. I reminded myself that he knew even less about me, and the little he thought he knew was lies, and felt a sudden urge to come clean. Before I could make the stupid mistake of actually doing so, he asked, "What the hell am I supposed to do with this?", eyeing the booth in a mixture of distaste and confusion.  
"Get in, sit still, get out. It's not rocket science." He grimaced as he moved the curtain and sat down. A short while later he came back out, and it was my turn. As we left the shop, he turned to me once more. "Who of your 'friends' has enough influence to make you two plausible passports on such short notice? Money can do much, but not everything." I resisted the urge to say 'duh' and instead told him of a young government official who would do it for me. It wasn't a complete lie - if Mycroft had not intervened, I did know a man named Arthur Fotherby who I would have asked. A complete twat, but a useful one, who I knew from university, Arthur's daddy's fortune had got him through private school education and found him a job without Arthur ever having to lift a finger. As a result of that and having a minor title, he thought he was God's gift to humankind, and woman kind especially. He would have done what I asked, but slowly and not without expectation of some kind of return favour. I shuddered internally as I thought of what he might have dreamt up as a reward for himself - much better to do it Mycroft's way. At least he wouldn't ask me to sleep with him in return for the passports! I sighed as I hustled Sherlock into yet another shop (French Connection, this time, in the hope that they might have casual trousers that wouldn't make Sherlock long for his private tailor) and heard him tell the woman at the door that her boyfriend was cheating on her, probably due to her compulsive ice-cream eating habit. I apologised for him and quickly steered him away from her before he could do any more damage. All ready to hiss at him, I suddenly realised how blue his eyes looked with his new hair, and how boyishly handsome he looked, and all the breath and words were knocked out of me. I stood, frozen, looking at him, and suddenly decided that it was time to go home NOW as he lightly ran his fingers up the inside of my wrist in an obvious (and unnecessary) attempt to diffuse my anger. _The Holmes men may be irritating, but they certainly have their uses,_ I thought to myself as we practically ran back to the bike, shopping bags in our hands and French Connection forgotten.

We barely managed to get inside before we started ripping each other's clothes off, and I swore in frustration as my phone rang. The one only Mycroft called me on. Sherlock raised an eyebrow as I answered it, obviously disappointed that it took precedence over him.  
"Yes?" I asked tersely.  
"Dear me, Miss Carlton, there's no need to be rude. I am simply calling to remind you that there are more pressing matters at hand than locking yourself in your bedroom with my brother." Sherlock had got bored of standing there and had started undoing the zip of my dress. I tried turning around to tell him to stop but he just winked at me and carried on.  
Realising that I should be saying something to the elder Holmes, not the younger, I turned my attention back to my mobile. "Yes, I appreciate that, but _I_ must remind _you_ that I am allowed to spend my time as I wish. Besides, I won't be occupied for too long." Sherlock had me standing in my underwear and was nipping his way up from my shoulder to my other ear, where he whispered "I don't know who the hell that person is, but you can tell them that you are, in fact, going to be occupied for a very, very long time." I fought the temptation to do just that as Mycroft said, "However quickly you manage to... Entertain yourself, we will still have lost valuable time. Kindly tell my brother to stop whatever it is he is doing to increase your rate of breathing by 30% and send me the photographs, Miss Carlton. I will not let my younger brother and his attachée die because they cannot control carnal urges!" He snapped into my ear just as Sherlock growled "Hurry up, I want to test the piano..." In the other. The situation was almost comical. Almost.  
A slightly calmer Mycroft began speaking again. "You have caused me to begin losing my temper, Miss Carlton. Only Sherlock has ever been able to do that. It seems you are well matched - all the more reason to keep you safe. My secretary has booked Eurostar tickets to Paris for you for 7pm. I will get her to email you the booking reference. Please send me the photographs without delay." He hung up and left me with a very sexy and irritated looking Sherlock. His pout grew when I told him that we had no time, and that he had to pack now. I was only in a slightly better mood, but I still laughed when shock crossed his face. "But I've never packed in my life!"  
"There's a first time for everything." I chuckled, and went off to pack myself.

I was in the middle of deciding what to shove into my suitcase when my phone showed that I had an email. Mycroft's secretary was informing me that the passports were on their way and that the tickets were coming with them. Impressed as I was by the speed with which Mycroft had managed everything, I couldn't help but wonder what I was getting myself into. It was all so strange and ridiculous, this wandering off to Paris to be some kind of assassin. Sometimes I felt like this was all massive joke, that any minute now my brother and sister would appear, and shout, "We got you!" And then Dad would be there, and Mum, and even Richard and B... That's when I got a grip on myself. I had been past the denial, I had fought my own brain. This wasn't the time for doubts or thinking of how things could have been. I wouldn't let Sherlock's blood be on my hands, not when I could help him and convince myself that I was a better person for it. And dismantling as much as I could of what Richard had done was important, too. How many had died because of my inability to act? How many lives ruined? Was I better late than never? I had to find out. And that started with getting my act together and packing. Now. God only knew how Mycroft was delivering these things, but if he had any if Sherlock's love of the theatrical then he would probably have them hand delivered by one of MI5's finest. Parachuting. From a helicopter. To the tune of the national anthem.  
The intercom buzzed, and I ran down the stairs and answered it, to hear the washed-out tones of a Fed-Ex delivery man announcing a package. Okay, so maybe Mycroft was a little different to Sherlock. Just.

**_I hope you guys don't hate my Mycroft! I'm doing my best not to make Sherlock too OOC either - just because he's no longer a virgin doesn't mean he's suddenly going to make pancakes or help old ladies cross the road! Unless they're Mrs Hudson, of course... Anyway, thank you a million times for the amazing reviews on the last chapter, you all deserve marshmallow pies and small furry mammals (the latter uncooked and alive, of course). Please feel free to review, but if you don't, take a pot of gold with you anyway. You all deserve it :)_**


	9. Chapter 9: Cameo Roles

_**Author's Note: Hello again! This one's a little different... I hope you like the style! It may take you a little bit of time to get what's happening, but then again it might not. Anyway, stick with it and there will be multiple presents :D But only virtual ones... Sorry :( Without further ado, read on!**_

Rebecca Henries and Timothy Beckett sat next to each other on the train from Oxford to London Paddington, talking politely but not warmly. Mr Beckett's hair was slicked back and his tie slightly loosened, the collar of his shirt undone, but he was no less the businessman. His colleague (for that was what she clearly was, and neither looked overjoyed about it) was alternating between staring at him and nodding along to what he was saying, examining her manicured nails, and smoothing the creases on her navy pencil skirt. After a while, the conversation between them dried up, and Miss Henries brought out an expensive-looking laptop from her leather briefcase, just as her neighbour started apathetically flicking through sheafs of documents. The train rumbled on. Across the aisle, a father lost his desperate struggled to keep his toddler entertained, and the child began squealing loudly. In unison, the professionals looked up and sighed loudly, contempt clear on their faces. The father left, screaming kid in tow. Silence once more.

Aedan and Aoife Malachi travelled across London in a cab. The driver stared at them in some interest whenever he had to stop in traffic or at a red light. The young man -dishevelled in those ridiculous jeans that were the fashion now, the ones that showed his designer underwear - was on his phone, doing Goodness knew what, but letting out a chuckle every so often. The woman, obviously his older sister - only a little smarter in baggy jeans and a man's jumper, red-rimmed eyes fixed on the window - shot daggers at him with every burst of laughter, and finally snapped, "For crying out loud, Aedan, no one cares about your inane jokes. Be quiet, I'm trying to think!" Her usually soft, musical tones grated in anger. He made no sign to indicate that he had heard, but the driver surely didn't imagine that the next chuckle was closer to a full throated laugh than anything else. The exasperated sister snatched the phone from her brother and returned, brow furrowed but with obvious satisfaction on her face, to her contemplation of the city outside the window. Aedan growled "This is exactly why Cathal left you. Can't stand to see anyone happy, can you?" His words, pronounced in the Irish tones he shared with his sibling, clearly stung the woman, and tears misted in her eyes. The man didn't see, busy as he was watching and listening to the rain start to fall on the windowpane.

Jenna Myers' high-pitched Californian squeals filtered through the door of the quiet compartment. Everyone had heard her various different ways of saying "OMG." And "No. Frickin. Way." at least a thousand times by now on the long journey to Paris, but none looked so annoyed by it as Smith Berns - a fellow American judging by his one clipped, monosyllabic conversation on his slim smartphone. Every so often he would stop tapping at his laptop to frown at the compartment door. His frowns were accompanied by a small movement upwards every time the shrieks grew especially loud, as if the man was rising out of his seat, and yet he remained seated for the entire journey. The infuriating woman finally ended her phone call when necessity demanded it - the train passed through the tunnel - and entered the compartment in a flurry of too much perfume and ridiculously high heeled shoes. She proceeded to chew gum exceedingly loudly, and appeared not to notice when Berns looked her way in anger. Surprisingly, she broke the silence between them by thrusting out her hand in introduction, apparently trying to flirt with the poor quant. Every attempt he made to try and curtail the conversation was ignored, and he finally let the spoilt brat's comments wash over him as he waited impatiently for the train to arrive in Paris.

"Mademoiselle Éléonore Lefèvre et Monsieur Guillaume Germain?" The young couple nodded, their hands entwined and their expensively casual clothes perfectly matching their trendy environment. The hotel clerk busied himself at his computer as the two Parisians looked at each other adoringly, and they had to be told twice to follow the bellboy to their rooms. When he, in an attempt to make polite conversation, inquired where they were from, as he thought he could hear Paris in their accents, they hastened to explain that they had both indeed grown up here, but lived in New York for a time, where they had met. They had returned to show each other their childhood houses, the serenely happy woman added, with squeeze to her partner's hand. The bellboy left them in their room, and fervently hoped that one day a man as attractive as that looked at him with such love and devotion. For now, though, the €50 note in his hand would just have to do, he thought as he returned to reception to continue his duties.

I collapsed on the hotel bed in utter exhaustion, worn out by our long day of chopping and changing roles. Sherlock had been outstanding, literally becoming each character with ease, but he looked no less tired as he sat on the sofa at the foot of the bed.

"Are we the sickeningly in love couple for the whole of our time here?" I asked the back of his head.

"Sadly, yes. But depending on our next destination, we can hopefully take on less irritating personas."

"Remind me again why we're bloody Lefèvre and Germain?"

"The ring."

Oh yes. The ring. Jean-Christophe Ambrose, the man we were looking for, masqueraded as a high-end jeweller, and Sherlock was supposed to get him to come to the hotel as a 'surprise' for me - I was to choose a wedding ring. Joy of joys, I was to play out my fantasy of how I had longed to be proposed to as a mask for an undercover operation. Sherlock had very kindly said that he would help me kill the man, but I was still dreading the moment we had to do the deed. Despite my utter conviction that I had killed before, I had never assassinated in cold blood, and I wasn't too sure of how I would react in such a situation. _I suppose I have to rely on acting and strong nerves, _I thought grimly_. In which case, I'm going to need some sleep, or I'll fall to pieces if the guy so much as says hello!_

I announced that I was going to go to bed to Sherlock and tried to ignore the fact that I could practically hear him sliding into 'seductive' mode. I wasn't that attractive, surely? I turned to tell him I was too knackered, and I realised that not even running a marathon could make me too tired for Sherlock Holmes. I surrendered to the less rational part of myself, and abandoned any hope of sleep that evening. We were supposed to be a couple, after all.

**_What do you think? Did it make any sense whatsoever? Thank you for reading and being generally insanely awesome, and I will see you all soon. Unless you hate me now. Which is fine, but know that this is the last gift you will ever receive from me: crumpets. Warm crumpets with butter and Earl Grey. Yummma :)_**

**_If you don't hate me, yay! And have a peppermint cream. Or something. Bye :D_**


	10. Chapter 10: 100 Visions and Revisions

**_Author's Note: I have nothing to offer you except my sincerest apologies and this small token of appeasement. I won't bore you with what's been going on in my tedious life - suffice to say that I have been busy with mind-numbingly dull things, but I am now able to crawl to you on my knees and beg forgiveness for not updating in such a ridiculously long time. I hope that this slightly longer chapter in some small way makes up for everything, and that you enjoy it. Happy birthday Benedict Cumberbatch, and happy reading to you all!_**

I wandered out into the streets of Paris on Guillaume Germain's arm, sighing internally. Becoming a simpering fool over a man cut a little too close to the core, as I had been there before. Though I could never be happy about that period in my life, it was at least a useful experience which I could now use, in roaming the most expensive areas of my favourite city by the side of someone who was as far removed from Sherlock Holmes as it seemed possible to get. We travelled from shop to jeweller's to restaurant to café, walking everywhere tasteful and travelling by taxi to anywhere not 'chic', but we went nowhere. Germain showed me where he had supposedly grown up - it was a huge apartment overlooking practically every monument in Paris - and whispered to me that it was, in fact, Sherlock's grandfather's secretary's old apartment, bestowed on the lucky man by Aloysius Holmes. I in turn presented Germain with the most expensive house in Paris and told him that it had been Éléonore's childhood home. I failed to mention that it had been built by my own great-grandfather, because my family was 'old money', and as I had been told at the grand age of six by my socialite grandmother, "Old money never flaunts its wealth, darling. That's for those new money types, and it just isn't done for one to emulate them." New money types were apparently those who had not had a coat of arms for "At least over a century", I had discovered a year later, when told I couldn't invite a certain girl over to tea because she didn't have a coat of arms at all.

Abruptly, I asked Sherlock about his family crest that evening in the safety of our hotel room. Being in a city where, all pretence aside, I had passed a large part of my youth, had brought back many memories, both good and bad. I couldn't help but wonder what my grandmother would have thought of Sherlock, who most definitely had money and (and perhaps pedigree?), but was lacking in manners simply because he couldn't be bothered.

Sherlock stared at me a while before replying. "My grandfather was the first to have a motto. 'Scientia semper nos defendit.' My father added it to the coat of arms he had made." The words were said grudgingly, as if he felt I had no right to know. I almost laughed out loud: not only was Sherlock 'new money' but he had no idea that I wasn't. My grandmother would have had a fit! I distinctly remembered her telling my parents to disown me after I became an actress. "No member of this family has ever been a vaudeville type, and none ever shall be, if I have anything to do with it!" Were her exact words. The thing about my grandmother was that she tried very hard to make you forget that she was the daughter of an artist, and as about as far from old money as she could be. I stepped out of my musings as Sherlock said, "There's something important you're not telling me. Why did you ask about my family? If you're intimidated, Mycroft is the one who cares about all that. I only know my family motto because my father drummed it into me." Intimidated. Ha! Who knew he could be so blind? He was vulnerable now, very vulnerable. My news could knock him down. Aloysius was right - Knowledge protected the Holmes family, and without it they were nothing. I was once again struck by an urge to come clean, this time to show him that he didn't know everything, that some people could best him in some matters occasionally. Even Mycroft knew. Some of it, at least. I could feel deep down that I was being ridiculous, that I was wanting to make comments only my grandmother would have made, but something about this city made me pretentious. I forced myself to nod at Sherlock and say, "I was always made fun of at school. We were only rich because my great-aunt sold some land for about 300 times what she had bought it for. The family next door wanted to extend the gardens of their manor house, and when she died she left us all the money, and my dad invested it, and suddenly he could buy a massive house and send his children to private schools."

Sherlock looked at me as if I was being stupid. "I'm not Mycroft." He said, as if speaking to a child. "I'll go to the 'jeweller' tomorrow. You can kill him whilst I take care of his idiot helpers." Kill him. Of course. Tomorrow, or the day after, I would stab a man.

I felt physically sick with the thought of killing someone when I woke the next morning. Realising that Sherlock had had nowhere to sleep when I saw him lying on the sofa with his hands steepled beneath his chin - we had somehow come to an unspoken agreement that we would never sleep together unless we had 'slept' together - I opened my mouth to apologise, but he started speaking before me. "He calls himself Gilles Coypeau."

"Ambrose?"

"Of course, who else would I be talking about, the bellboy?"

"Chill. What's the significance?"

Sherlock sat up and gave me a look. "Think."

"Fine, fine, I'm thinking. Um... Coypeau. As in Charles D'Assoucy? So... He likes poetry, he's patriotic, probably has delusions of grandeur. And Gilles... He likes the name?God knows." I gave up and looked at Sherlock pleadingly. It was far too early in the morning for deductions, and I hadn't got much sleep what with thinking about having to kill this guy and all. That strange light came into Sherlock's eyes and he began pacing the length of the room, talking at speed. I watched him, my admiration growing as his litany continued.

"You're right about the Coypeau part. He's fiercely French, writes poetry and tends to read it to people as he tortures them, is flamboyantly gay and probably in lust with Moriarty, and obsessed with French history, particularly the 14th and 17th centuries. Hence the Gilles - the only person that fits is Gilles de Rais." He stopped, glancing towards me expectantly. I shrugged, displaying my ignorance and he sighed before continuing. "He was a serial killer. Born in 1404, killed about 150 children. Nobleman, companion of Jeanne D'Arc. Secret homosexual."

I gaped at Sherlock for a while before recovering my wits. "So this guy is mad? He admires prolific serial killers and poets, tortures people regularly, and probably fucked my cousin just as often? And you want me to kill him?!" I was doing pretty well at keeping the panic out of my voice until that point. Sherlock threw himself down on the sofa in exasperation, declaiming that I was being melodramatic. "He's unlikely to be mad, or he wouldn't be have been working closely with Moriarty. Well, not more insane than Moriarty himself was." He explained in a bored manner. This was supposed to reassure me, I realised. Not any crazier than the suicidal maniac who had killed people for the fun of the 'game' he had played with Sherlock. Brilliant. I glared at Sherlock, but he had closed his eyes in apathy. I collected my thoughts, breathing deeply. So, Jean-Christophe was crazy; well, I still had to kill him. He was a murderer and a sadist; all the more reason to strike the blow. And he liked men; I had to alter my plan a little, but the basic premise remained. Nothing had changed at all, but my heart still tried to jump out of my chest. I was terrified, but it had to be done. There would be countless others too, and I would have to kill them all without flinching. My breaths were still shuddery, but considerably more controlled when I next spoke. "Waiting is getting tedious, Sherlock. Get him so I can rid the world of his fucking bastard mind."

One of the man's eyebrows arched, as the eye under it opened. "I'm sorry if I gave you the impression that this was going to be simple. He's a criminal mastermind - not as brilliant as your cousin, perhaps, but a mastermind none the less - and he is paranoid and possibly mildly psychotic. We have to plan carefully. He's a genius."

"Not as clever as Sherlock Holmes, surely? And what the hell do you mean, we 'need to plan'? What the fuck have you been doing, composing sonnets?"

Sherlock looked startled. "Exactly." He replied.

"Sherlock, you... What?!" His words had just filtered through to my brain. "You've actually been writing sonnets? Wha...why...huh?" My early morning thinking gave up, and I was left with simply bewilderment.

"And people ask me why I don't sleep." Sherlock muttered under his breath.

"Alright, yes I'm dumb in the morning, continue with the explanation! Why the fuck have you been writing poetry when you're sending me off to kill a maniac?"

"Obvious. I'll be a little dreamy, bored of you picking out a ring, sit down with a notebook, start writing a sonnet I've precomposed, maybe flirt a little with him, and distract him."

"I'm a little confused..."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Shut up. I'm confused because you haven't explained how we're getting this paranoid criminal mastermind to come to the hotel. And if we do manage that, he's sure to come with highly trained assassins or whoever the hell he has as his attendants. Please tell me you've thought about this?"

"Of course. He's been short of money ever since Moriarty died - he's been taking on more and more assignments as a jeweller. I will offer him extortionate amounts of money to come to the hotel, and flirt with him if all else fails. You're to give him a slow acting drug today, and not make any definite choice about the ring. This evening, we'll go into his shop together, I'll write the poetry and when he's feeling drowsy get up to knock out his men. You kill him - having got rid of security cameras - and then we leave. Elementary."

I processed all this information slowly. Then something rattled against the back of my brain.

"That's the second time you said 'flirt'... Quite apart from the fact that you sound like you mean 'kill' every time you say it, what makes you think he won't be suspicious? Or that he'll respond the way you want him to?"

"He's a homosexual egomaniac. Why would he be suspicious? As for responding the way I want him to..." Sherlock looked at me so seductively that my heart immediately began beating faster.

"Okay, okay, point taken. Go get him."

"I just told you, we need a plan."

"Yeah, and you just told me what it was." I watched with a smile on my face as comprehension spread across his.

"Sleeping does have some uses, you know." I told him as he grabbed clothes from the wardrobe (where he had arranged everything in some strange set order) and stormed into the bathroom. The minute he heard my remark, however, he came back into the room, having thought of a better way to get back at me than sulking. He got undressed in front of me, apparently oblivious to my presence, and returned from his shower without even a towel on, dressing in the same way. I rolled my eyes and desperately tried to keep my gaze from wandering over his body. How had I thought only a moment ago that anyone would be able to resist his advances?

Sherlock left without a word, and I chose to take that as an assurance that he knew I would do my job well without further instructions. I dressed and ordered breakfast from the bellboy in character as a run through, and felt my nerves begin to calm, as they always did when I stepped on stage or began to perform. The room service trolley had just been removed, and I was sitting at the desk reading the news on my computer when Germain walked in. I stood up, and let the glee that I truly felt at seeing his bright blue eyes shine from my face, holding out a hand for him to come hold.

"Chéri! Tu m'as manquais. T'étais où?" Sherlock kissed me and placed his hand round my waist.

"J'ai une petite surprise pour toi, mon coeur." He gestured towards the door, and a brown, tall man walked in. He was perhaps 6'3", with light brown hair and a sharp nose, extremely attractive. His eyes were brown too, but fiercely disturbing. They held a gleam that could have been carved from diamond, and his smile didn't come near to reaching them. Those eyes didn't move from my face, yet they seemed to catalogue everything. Behind him came two seemingly simpering and harmless attendants carrying huge silver briefcases. Even they had a gaze harder than stone, and the quick, fluid movements of men with lightening reflexes. Forcing myself not to see what I had already observed, I beamed a smile at Ambrose, who flourished a bow and introduced himself as Gilles Coypeau.

Continuing to speak in French, we went through the necessary niceties and finally reached the point where he mentioned the reason for his presence. I shrieked in delight as the two briefcases were flung open to reveal hundreds of sparkling engagement rings set in black velvet. Wonder and rapturous excitement spread across my face as I fingered the rings and tried one after another on, chattering excitedly to my husband-to-be all the while. I discussed sizes and alterations and materials (but never prices) with Ambrose, and after two hours we decided that I would come to his shop in the evening to view more options and make a final decision. He summoned his lackeys with the snap of a finger and left, and the last thing he saw as he shut the door was Éléonore Lefèvre smothering Guillaume Germain with kisses and mumbling "Je t'aime." He never even checked whether we ourselves drank the champagne we had given him.

We took a taxi to the jewellery shop at 6 in the evening, Sherlock having chosen his clothes carefully. Like this morning, he had a little product in his hair, just enough to ruffle it and increase his boyish charm. His black jeans were tight, and his dark blue silk shirt was covered by a blue v-necked jumper in pure cashmere that matched his eyes exactly. If I hadn't known better, my gay-dar would have been beeping softly - exactly the point. The shop had officially closed an hour earlier, but it was lit and open especially for us now. Sherlock slid straight into a leather chair as I once again engaged Ambrose in conversation while examining his merchandise. Everything I showed to Sherlock received nothing but an absent minded nod, and after a while I gave up, having narrowed my selection down to four rings. From the corner of my eye I saw Sherlock take a notebook and fountain pen from his back pocket, and Ambrose was soon talking animatedly to him about Clément Marot and other early French sonneteers. Sherlock was laughing and lightly touching the other man's leg, biting and licking his lips, and generally pitching his flirtation just right. At around 8, I informed them that I had made my decision. I triumphantly observed the slight haziness in Ambrose's eyes and the faint slurring of his speech as he announced the price. We were discussing getting the ring resized when Sherlock excused himself to go the bathroom. One of the attendants went with him, on the pretext of showing him the way. A moment later I asked if someone could open a window, and for a drink of water. The second attendant left to get me a glass as Ambrose turned his back to open the window. As quickly as I could, I brought nail scissors out of my bag and cut any wires I could see. I watched the small screen in the corner of the room, but the camera didn't register my movements. I snipped at all the small wires until it went black. My phone buzzed in my bag, a sign that Sherlock had got rid of both the men. Ambrose half turned towards me. I sped to ask him to open the window wider. My shoes slid off easily, and with three small, soundless steps on the carpeted floor, I was behind him, syringe in hand. He fell to the floor with a muffled thump, the concentrated solution acting immediately. I rejoined Sherlock in the room next door and we proceeded to lock everything as 'Coypeau' would have. If the police came, they would see a man who had most likely died of a heart attack as he left work for the day. But considering Ambrose's night job, it was most likely that his own men would cover our tracks when they woke to find that they had no recollection of anything past leaving the hotel this morning. We had been careful not to mention that we were coming this evening in front of either of them, and Sherlock assured me that the chemical cocktail he had prepared would cause exactly 5 hours and 21 minutes of memory loss. We remained another two days in Paris before assuming yet another identity and making our way to Moscow.

**_French translation: Chéri! Tu m'as manquais. T'étais où? - Darling! I missed you. Where were you?_**

**_J'ai une petite surprise pour toi, mon coeur. - I have a little surprise for you, my heart._**

**_Je t'aime - I love you_**

**_Are you appeased? Please say yes! Leave comments, follow, do handstands, bake a cake, whatever you feel like. I hope you enjoyed the read, and have a brilliant day. I shall leave you with two delicious quotes from a wonderful man who is no less sexy and all round fantastic for being 37:_**

_**"[when asked 'sex or money' replies without a pause] Sex."**_

_**"I'll give, you receive. I like being the dominant one."**_

_**REMEMBER - NEVER GIVE UP HOPE THAT HE MAY FALL FOR YOU :)**_


	11. Chapter 11: A Miracle of Rare Device

_**Author's Note: I grovel once more, and place myself at your mercy. Here is a short chapter of almost pure smut before I update again on Saturday. I really do apologise... Warnings for graphic depictions of sex (yay!) and a little bit of powerplay. Still not descending into the realms of BDSM, but refer yourselves to my nonexistent therapist if any of this isn't your cup of tea. I can't help my brain :P (awful excuse, I know) If you would rather not read this bit, the first paragraph contains no sex whatsoever, so read that for important plot and join us on Saturday! To the rest of you: enjoy!**_

The self-styled 'Sergei Dimitrov', known in criminal circles as Alexei Mamut, was a simple, down to earth drug dealer. After the madness of both Jim Moriarty (as I had gotten used to calling him) and Jean-Christophe Ambrose, it was a relief to realise that people like him still existed: greedy and power-seeking with very few morals. Yes he was dangerous, yes he was corrupt and self-seeking, yes he was powerful, but at least he wasn't a psychopath or a meglomaniac. Neither was he - much to my elation - gay, which meant that Sherlock's acting skills wouldn't be required to stretch into the realm of flirting again. All in all, as we travelled to Moscow in the guise of two law firm partners on a business trip, I was feeling more comfortable than I had in a while. Maybe it was this strange relaxed feeling, or maybe it was the fact that I had to be on no more than cordial terms with the 'business partner' sitting opposite me, but either way the evening we arrived at the hotel was notable for a number reasons, none of which were really acceptable considering the circumstances.

Sherlock had inevitably deduced my mood, so we hurried into the hotel room with equal haste. Sherlock looked around for bugs whilst I examined our surroundings - modern and comfortable, this chain of hotels was the perfect place for two people on a business trip to stay. I took a calming breath and sat down on the white suede sofa; crossing my ankles demurely; waiting. A second later Sherlock whirled round.

"There was no cause for flirting with the concierge. It was practically out of character." He said, almost managing to sound nonchalant.  
"He was being ridiculously slow. You have to admit that he speeded up considerably after I had batted my eyelashes at him."  
"You were far too verbose on the train." He was quite obviously trying to find problems with my behaviour, desperate to cover up that we both wanted the same thing.  
I rolled my eyes."Cuff me." I held up my wrists, palms facing upwards. On one level, it was a joke, poking fun at him for being so pedantic. On another, it was a challenge. But there was no wondering about whether the challenge was inadvertent: combined with my smile and posture, my whole body had added a silent 'I dare you.'  
His eyes widened a fraction of an inch - I had caught him unawares. Catching up with his usual speed, he loosened his collar and removed his tie, throwing it casually on the bed. He arched his neck from side to side, working his fingers at the base as if to release tension. It was all so normal. And yet it was all so unbearably suggestive. Smiling softly, I picked up a complementary chocolate from the table and pushed it in between my lips before eating it very slowly. Sherlock undid his shirt cuffs with his teeth and rolled his sleeves up. I rubbed a finger against my lips as I glanced out the window. Sherlock caught my eye. I smiled. Simultaneously, he stepped towards me and I stood up. We walked measuredly until we were inches apart. I ran a hand down his chest and his arm circled my waist, pulling me closer. We finally kissed and I sighed into him, pulling his hair so I could hear his soft groans, showing his tongue what I could do with mine. We stumbled back and landed on the bed, panting and moaning. I could feel his cock through our clothes, hot and hard against my leg. I ground against him and chuckled at the noises he made; did it once more just for the sounds. I loved how vocal he was, how he told me what he liked and what he loved. Suddenly his hand was over my eyes, and I was on my back, helpless under his angular frame.  
"Keep your eyes closed." He commanded. My stomach dropped altogether too excitedly. I fluttered my eyelashes against his palm as a test.  
"Don't make me use the blindfold." He warned, voice deep and a little threatening. He bit my neck a little harder than normal, accentuating his point. I shivered. God, how had he known? Of course, he was Sherlock Holmes, but... Ooh, it was perfect. It had been leading up to this, and now there was no need for me to mention it, no need for any explanation. He knew, and he was using that knowledge to the best of his abilities.  
"Ready to listen now?" He questioned.  
I nodded mutely, not trusting myself to respond any other way.  
"Good." He growled into my ear, carefully lifting his hand away and biting his way to my collar. I could feel his hands everywhere, and it was torture to keep my eyes closed as he flitted past the places I needed his touch most. It felt like a hour before he had finished undressing me, a year before he was drawing wide circles around a certain sensitive bundle of nerves, missing it deliberately. I withstood four circles, then nine, then fifteen, before I finally hissed, "I know you know where it is, you fucking bastard." Wrong move. His hands were gone, he was counting under his breath. Ten...Twenty... Forty...Ninety...One hundred... His hands came back. I almost gasped in relief, but then I realised that the circles were larger. I waited again, so close to screaming. Finally, little by little, the circumference decreased. A strange strangled cry emerged from me when his fingertips eventually brushed the tiny nub. His teeth bit my nipple lightly and my whole body vibrated; he kissed me and I thought I would die. I was used to his attention flickering from one part of my body to another by now, but I was surprised when it disappeared altogether. I braved opening my eyes, and felt my heart skip a beat. Sherlock was languidly stroking himself, gaze exploring my body, palm exploring his erection. He was using me to get off. I was angry, and so pleased about it. He was doing it on purpose, it was all perfectly calculated, and it was amazing. I was so turned on by the sight of him pleasuring himself, by the thought of a man so insanely sexy finding me attractive enough to use... I took his erection in my hand and spoke softly, half to him and half to myself, "You're wearing far too many clothes. It's entirely unacceptable."  
I could tell that he was about to make a remark, so I immediately started stroking him, watching his face and listening intently. Soon I knew exactly what he wanted me to do, and had shut him up completely apart from a series of incoherent groans. Without warning, I suddenly took him into my mouth. I bobbed up and down a few times before withdrawing and continuing to pump my hand over his cock. The second time I started bobbing his hand pressed my head and he tangled his fingers into my hair, lightly holding me down. I took his whole length into my mouth and throat, humming gently around him. I stayed there as long as I could before drawing back and licking my way to catching my breath. Occasionally I brushed my teeth against the head, just to hear his sharp intake of breath. Finally, I looked up at him and swallowed him down once more, knowing that this would end him.  
"Fuck." It was whispered through half-clenched teeth, but it was the sexiest and best word I had ever heard. I had made Sherlock swear, and... Now I had made him come.

We collapsed in a heap on the bed, and despite the fact that we probably both intended to continue our shenanigans throughout the night, the trials of a hard day's travelling overtook us, and we fell asleep. I woke early the next morning and showered, returning to find Sherlock slowly returning to the waking world. His three seconds of bleary blinking at the room was one of the very few times I had seen his face open and his mind relatively switched off, and I cherished the moment while it lasted. Too soon, he sprang off the bed and hurried into the bathroom with a pile of clothes. Sighing, I flung myself on the sofa and read, awaiting his return.

_**As usual, please review and follow. I haven't had any words of loveliness (or even flames) since before I started losing track if posting chapters, and I don't know if that's because no one loves me or this is an elaborate protestation of my postings being few and far between! So, feedback: I need it like the tea bag needs hot water, or the scone jam and clotted cream. Especially since I think my smut is shit and I only write it cos I have so much fun doing so! Anyway, pity party over now :P Everyone who reviews gets great karma and imaginary Louboutins. And imaginary magnificent chateaus.**_

_**Have a great day/night/endless cycle of existence, and see you on Saturday!**_


	12. Chapter 12: Fire and Ice

**_WARNINGS: Sherlock being rude, strong language. (Those seem to go together, huh?)_**

**_Author's note: For those of you that skipped the last chapter, this carries straight on from the first paragraph, except that Sherlock's now in the shower. Guess who's back? MYCROFT! Yay :)_**

**_P.S read the dates and times, it'll help!_**

Mycroft once more managed to time his call impeccably, and Sherlock was in the shower when my phone rang. Whether this was coincidence or something more sinister, I didn't want to know.

"Mr Holmes."

"Miss Carlton. Congratulations on Paris. You are in Moscow now, I presume?"

"Yes. Alexei Mamut."

"Most of the London drug trade will collapse if you do your job properly."

"Indeed. I'm sorry if I sound rude, but what is your reason for calling?"

"You are obligated to tell Sherlock what you are concealing from him. Your poker face can only last so long."

"No. This is my choice. I will be swayed by your arguments when they are logical, but this isn't something you can get involved in."

"You will regret it. Mark my words, Miss Carlton, my brother does not take kindly to being lied to."

"And I do not take kindly to my personal affairs being meddled in by someone I do not know."

"One if the many pitfalls of democracy is that you give power to certain individuals. The power vested in the British government by voters includes the right to secure the country's safety. Thus I have the ability to access the personal information of people far more important than you, and do with that information what I wish. I would have thought you would have more regard for manners and authority than you have been showing, Miss Carlton, considering your upbringing. Or rather, Lady Lillian La Tour d'Auvergne. Think on my words. Goodbye."

I cursed into the phone as he hung up. My anger was only increased by the knowledge that Mycroft Holmes was entirely right.

I went to find Sherlock soon afterwards. Mycroft's comments had been annoying and unnecessary, but he had given me an idea nonetheless.

"Sherlock!" I banged on the bathroom door. After a second the shower stopped running.

"What?" He called back.

"Is Alexei a gambler?" There was a pause. The door opened and Sherlock's head appeared.

"How did you know?"

"I didn't. I guessed. I mean, most drug dealers gamble and drink."

He eyed me suspiciously.

"Why do you ask?"

"I have plan." I announced, my eyes shining. I expected praise. Really, I should have known better by now.

"Well, I suppose that if the basic premise isn't terrible, I can iron out the flaws and we can end up with something acceptable. Give me a minute."

And with that vote of confidence, Sherlock disappeared. The shower was turned on once more, and I was left to wait on the sofa, cursing all Holmes men and their lack of faith in me.

Sherlock wandered in fully dressed, towelling his hair.

"So what's this fantastic plan?" He asked, already sounding bored.

"Can you play poker?"

"Could. Deleted it."

"Learn again. I need you to play Russian roulette with Mamut."

"Russian what?"

"Roulette. I would have thought you would know it. It doesn't necessarily involve poker, but here's the plan..."

An hour later, I rung an old friend.

"Charlie? It's me."

"_Darling_! Is that really you? What's going on? Are you alright? Where are you?"

"Charlie, I need to ask you something. And you need to not ask questions, and do what I tell you. Can you do that?"

"Of course! But what is it? God, you can't know how pleased I am to hear from you, I, well, after everything that happened, and not knowing... Darling, I thought you were dead."

"Charlie, I know. What I've done is unforgivable, and I'll explain everything later, but right now, I need you to do me a favour. Please."

"Anything for you, as always. What do you need?"

_Outskirts of Moscow, Russia - Friday, 10pm_

Outside, vague shadows hulked in the distance. The occasional flowerbed bathed in a pool of light, a silent fountain reflected the bright windowpane, the drive was a million points of white that turned into pinpricks and melded into a sinuous line that finally joined the horizon... But the overwhelming impression was one of bleak darkness.

Inside, enclosed by the soundproof stone, instruments sang out Mozart in softly-lit spaces where crisp white wines were sipped; pianos played Rachmaninoff in rooms that contained heated debates and declarations of love triggered by Burgundy; champagne flowed to the rhythm of a ceaseless Jazz quartet; whispered conversations sustained by whiskey and cognac never rose or fell in pitch in somber panelled libraries; and the hum of life heightened by alcohol pervaded throughout the house. In one room, laughingly called 'the casino' by some, a huge bar that would have dominated the largest room in any palace was dwarfed by the sheer scale of its surroundings. A table murmured to once have been King Arthur's took centre stage, lying in the midst of smaller facsimiles. Every seat round every table save the largest was occupied, and a sea of dinner jackets met the eye. Weaving their way amongst the tables were dazzling women, bejewelled and resplendent in Oscar de la Renta, Alexander McQueen, Valentino, Pucci, Armani and the creations of countless other designers. They moved like brightly-coloured streams, invisible currents pushing them this way and that, but the empty centre table divided the stream like a boulder, and none moved around it without leaving at least a metre of space between them and it. People talked. People drank. People laughed.

Suddenly, a hush descended. A man walked in. He was in his thirties, compact, and muscled. His face was slightly weathered, his eyes an icy blue that complemented his dark blond hair, tinged as it was with a little premature grey at the temples. The man walked as if he had all the time in the world, with a soldier's bearing. Immaculately dressed in black tie, he started smiling at the people in the crowd as they parted for him. He shook hands with the men, kissed the women's cheeks and murmured compliments. Slowly, the room began to buzz with conversations once more, and the man smiled as he took a seat at The Table. Those who noticed looked confused; those who didn't were prodded and whispered to by those who did. By the time more men entered the room in single file, everyone was silent once more. These men did not smile or make small talk. These men looked as if they had never smiled in their lives. They were followed by a butler, who was in turn leading footmen carrying metal cases. Each man sat at the table, until only one seat remained. One by one, the footmen laid a case in front of each man, and then where no man sat.

A few women who had never witnessed this occasion tittered nervously, just to break the silence. A few men in the same predicament coughed and went to get a drink from the bar.

It was into this atmosphere that a young man walked in, bowtie undone and dinner jacket open, with a cigarette in one hand and a bottle of Tattinger in the other.

"I say, it's all a bit quiet in here, isn't it? What happened, did someone's granny die?" He asked, much too loudly and cheerfully. Taking a swing from the champagne bottle, he spoke again. "Well whatever's happened, it's time to make some dosh. I'll be kissing the Queen's face on a 50 and have thousands more of her lined up next to me before the night is out, chaps, and that's a promise!"

He dropped the cigarette and ground it into the marble floor. In one swift movement he had manoeuvred another one out of a packet that was now back in his pocket, and placed it between his lips. Turning, he saw the butler hovering in a corner of the room behind him and asked for a lighter. One was procured and passed to him. He advanced on the first woman he saw, and placed the heavy gold object in her hand. "Be a darling, won't you?" He mumbled, gesturing to the cigarette in his mouth. Looking lost, she decided to comply, lighting the cigarette as quickly as she could. The man took a long drag, sighed, and winked at her. "Much obliged, love." Taking the lighter back and caressing her hand at the same time, he threw it to the butler and laughed as he fumbled to catch it. "Not enough cricket practice, eh? Still, good effort my man." Sauntering over to The Table, he paused to hand something to the woman who had lit the cigarette for him. She glanced at it nervously as he flung himself into the last remaining seat, to the left of the light-haired soldier who was clearly the leader despite the 'equality' of the round table. She gaped at it as he exclaimed to the man on his right, "Righto, Sergei, you're dealing. Everybody open their treasure chests, what!"

One of the woman's friends came up behind her. "What a horrible man. Are you alright, honey?" The woman mutely handed the rectangular piece of card to her friend. She, being of a more sensitive disposition, promptly fainted.

The card which had caused so much commotion slipped between her fingers and fluttered to the floor. It read, under a coat of arms and in embossed letters:

_**Charles Harold Edward Alexander de Vere II, Earl of Oxford**_

_Hotel in Moscow, Russia - Wednesday, 9am_

There was a knock at the door. I sprang up from the sofa where I had been waiting and ran to answer it. I flung it open and launched myself at the man standing there, kissing both of his cheeks and smiling.

"Darling!" He sang out, picking me up and whirling me round.

"Charlie, put me down you ass!" I laughed as he deposited me on the floor and I collapsed in his arms.

He kissed the top of my head and hugged me back tightly, but too soon he pulled away, holding my arms tightly as he inspected me.

"You changed your hair." He lifted a strand of it up and let it fall.

"I liked it better before. You look well, though." He continued. "Better than the last time I saw you, anyway. Though that was... Two years ago? At your father's funeral. You didn't come to your brother's. Nor your mother's." The reproach in his voice cut through me like a knife. I shook my head, trying to rid it of the bad memories.

"_Don't_ Charlie. Please don't. I missed you so, so much. And I'm clean now, and rebuilding my life. I'm sorry I didn't come to see you, I wanted to, really. It's just that with everything that happened..." I broke off, tears choking me. Charlie's eyes softened and he pulled me into his arms again. I felt so safe; I wanted to stay there locked in his embrace for the rest of my life. But I broke away, determined to finish my explanation.

"I hurt so many people, Cee. I couldn't bring myself to come back into your life, into the lives of my old friends. I didn't want to risk hurting you too. Believe me, that was the only reason behind it."

He smiled sadly when I called him 'Cee'. That had been my name for him when I was so small that I couldn't pronounce 'Charlie' properly.

"It's alright, darling. I understand now. And I'm so happy to see you healthy again, and to know that you called on me for help. So wipe your eyes and tell me what you need. You didn't say anything on the phone except that you wanted me to come to Moscow."

I wiped my tears and led him to sofa.

"Yes, I know. I have a lot of explaining to do, and it's going to take a while. Are you sure you want to do this? I did say it was going to be dangerous." I asked, taking his hands into mine.

"You did. And on what universe did you think that was possibly going to stop me?" I squeezed his hands to show him how much that meant to me.

"In that case, we need to start with someone you'll have heard of. His name is Sherlock Holmes, and he... well, he can be a bit of a pillock at times."

_Hotel in Moscow, Russia - Wednesday, 12pm_

"Well, that's quite a story. I remember Richard... I never liked him. There was something in his eyes that gave me the willies, I seem to recall. And Sherlock Holmes is real, eh? I was on his side anyway. I mean, who would really go to all that trouble just for a bit of attention! And now you need my cash and for me to try my hand at acting? I never was very good, you know that. You were always the one with the thespian streak, even when we were little."

"It's not that simple, Cee. You know I don't need the money from you, I could do it myself, but if people try to trace where it came from - which they probably will - it's easier for it to be yours. And with any luck, you'll be in the black by the end of the evening anyway."

"No need to tell me that you don't need my money, darling. I was only joking, I know you could buy me out a million times over!" He laughed and planted a kiss on the back of my hand.

"Hardly, Charlie! Though it is tempting, if only to see your mother's face were someone to tell her you'd exchanged money for your title!" We both burst into giggles imagining this, knowing full well that Charlie's mother could have beat my grandmother for sheer snobbishness any day. I was still chuckling when my phone buzzed. The text I saw immediately straightened my face:

**_Five minutes away from hotel._**

**_SH_**

"What's wrong?" Charlie asked, concern radiating from every pore.

"It's okay. Well, it is for me, at least. Sherlock's almost here. I need to warn you about his personality issues..."

"A bit of a pillock, I know, you said."

"Yeah, it's more than that, though. You know that thing I can do? Like tell that you didn't eat on your plane, that you're looking for a job, that kind if thing?"

"How...? Don't bother. Yes, I remember."

"Well, he does it too. But better. And he's less tactful about what he announces. Quite a lot less."

"That's fine, I don't mind. Really, what could he say, darling? Only that I'm radiantly happy to see you, and that I'll do anything I can to help you. And him, if you want me to."

"God I missed you, Cee. You're like a breath of fresh air." I hugged him again, and he pretended that I was squeezing all the air out of him. He thrashed around a bit, laughing and wheezing, and finally managed to push me off him.

"You're going to kill me, Elle!"

I gasped and sat up, not laughing anymore.

"Shit. I forgot. How could I forget?"

"What? What is it?"

"Charlie, he doesn't _know_."

"About the... Illness?"

"No, no, he was 'ill' once too. He knows all about that. Just not about me. He only knows my stage name, and he thinks I'm just... Ordinary. When he came to me I was just working in the RAF, acting in student productions."

"How the hell could he think you're ordinary? He really must be a pillock."

"Charlie, don't. I'm serious, I don't want him to know. I'm happy to just be treated like a normal person for once. I told him that you're one of my brother's friends from school, that we only have money because a distant relative left us some and my dad invested it."

"He believed that? I thought he was supposed to be a genius!"

"_Charlie_..." I said in a warning tone.

He held his hands up in mock surrender. "Fine! Fine. I won't breathe a word."

"Thanks, Cee." I hugged him again.

"By the way, he calls me Elle too. When he calls me anything at all. Don't be... Don't be upset, that's just a shortening of my stage name. It's not... Not what you call me." I settled for that, though I knew it was inadequate. Charlie's smile was a bit tighter now.

"Yes, good." Was all he said in reply.

I tried to put him back at his ease by talking to him about what he was doing now. He confirmed my guess that he had just left the Army and was now looking for a job in a law firm or something similar. He was just recounting some anecdotes from his time with his unit, and we were both laughing hysterically again when the door opened. Our heads turned simultaneously to see who it was, and Sherlock strode in.

Charlie stood up and held out his hand for Sherlock to shake. Sherlock ignored it, choosing instead to look him up and down. I jumped up and hissed "Sherlock, be nice." Before he could start his infernal deductions.

"Charles de Vere, I presume?"

Charlie realised that his proffered hand had been rejected, and settled for a nod instead. "At your service, Mr Sherlock Holmes."

"So you don't insist on your proper title? How very _modern_ of you." Sherlock sneered. I wanted to stamp on his foot, but Charlie simply kept smiling and said, "No, no, Earl de Vere was my father. Haven't quite grown into the title yet. Charlie's fine."

"In that case, you may call me Sherlock. Mr Holmes refers to Mycroft, and seeing as I already look more like him than I would want to, I want as few things as humanly possible linking me to him."

Charlie looked a little lost, so I mouthed that Mycroft was Sherlock's brother.

"So you're a, uh. A consulting detective, was it?" Charlie asked, in a desperate bid to get back on top of the conversation.

"Yes. You must have read the papers?"

"Of course. I was always on your side, by the way." Charlie said amiably.

"Ah." Was Sherlock's reply. The silence became uncomfortable very quickly.

"Could you, for example, deduce me?"

I groaned. Of all the things Charlie could have come out with, this was possibly the worst.

"Sherlock, no." I said forcefully before turning to Charlie. "How could you say something like that? He doesn't need a bloody invitation! He would have done it anyway if I hadn't asked him to keep quiet!"

"Darling, don't be boring. I can handle whatever silly thing he comes out with. I want to hear what he has to say!"

"Yes, _do_ let me speak, _darling_. I'll just say a few _silly_ things." Sherlock added acerbically.

"Oh God, boys." I replied, going over to the sofa to watch the fireworks that would surely ensue.

"Eton, Sandhurst. Army until recently, but now looking for a job in a... Law firm? Yes, law. Father dead, mother chronic gin drinker, no siblings. Flew here by private jet, haven't eaten all day. Longterm girlfriend left you recently, a fact you neglected to tell Elle because you're in love with her, but you never will tell her, mostly because you've been in a big brother position all your life, but also because your mother wouldn't approve. And we share a tailor." Sherlock had barely managed to get the last few words out of his mouth before Charlie launched himself at him and punched him in the stomach four times. I reached him before he could do any more damage and stilled his arm. Sherlock unbent slowly, and I slapped him on his left cheek. He turned back to face me, mouth open, and I slapped him on his right cheek. I didn't stop Charlie from kneeing him between his legs extremely hard before taking Charlie with me to sit on the sofa. Sadly, there was no other room for us to retire to, so we had to be in the same place as Sherlock, but that didn't stop me from taking Charlie's hand in mine. Before he could speak, I whispered, "Cee, I _knew_. I'm sorry. I called you and asked you to come even though I knew. And... I also know that I don't feel the same way."

Charlie nodded, jaw clenched. "I knew that would be your answer, darling. I just wish I'd had a chance to tell you myself." At that, we both turned to look at Sherlock, who had crumpled to the floor.

**_I know that was a little different, but I hope it was good. Thank you to everyone who favourited and followed, you're awesome and you all get private islands. Still no new reviews :(_**

**_Feeeeeed meeeeee... Please? :p_**

**_See you next _****_Saturday_****_ or _****_Tuesday!_**


	13. Chapter 13: The Moon Has Lost Her Memory

_**Author's note: I apologise for the absurdly short nature of this chapter. It does contain mentions of John! And Greg! So hopefully that kind of makes up for it... More soon, I promise :)**_

As much as I hated Sherlock at that moment, I couldn't bear to see him hurt more than he already had been. Charlie looked ready to murder him, but I judged that he had done enough.  
"How hard did you punch him, Cee?" I asked, genuinely worried.  
"There'll be extensive bruising on his stomach and he won't be able to exercise for the next few weeks. As for the other thing... He should still be able to have children. Probably. Why, how hard did you slap him?"  
"He may be concussed... I don't know, I almost cut myself on his bloody cheekbones."  
Sherlock started mumbling incoherently into the floorboards. "Irene? Is that you?" He seemed to say. I walked over and rolled him onto his back. Slapping him again - more lightly this time - to wake him up, I grabbed his jaw and leant over him. "No, it's me. And now that I know we haven't killed you, I'm royally pissed off. Do you have anything to say for yourself?" He glanced behind me blearily, taking in what I had said. "You might want to crouch next to me instead of leaning over me like this. The Earl of Oxford is quite pointedly staring at your arse." He slurred. I rolled my eyes and crouched next to Sherlock, ignoring Charlie's fervent protests that he had been doing no such thing. "Sherlock, why did you do that? We need his help, in case you'd forgotten. And we need you uninjured and able to play your part, both facts which you seem to have _completely ignored_!"  
"He was being irritating." Sherlock muttered sullenly.  
"_What the_..." I took a deep, calming breath, and started again more quietly. "How on earth was he being irritating, Sherlock? I thought he was being perfectly polite."  
"He called my deductions silly. And he kept looking at me mockingly. He doesn't think I have a proper job, and he thinks I'm beneath him because I haven't got a title." He listed each thing more petulantly than the last.  
_He doesn't mind that Charlie's in love with you_, whispered a voice in the back of my head. I pushed it away and took my anger at myself out on Sherlock. "Stop being such a child, Sherlock!" I hissed viciously. "We need Charlie, and you've definitely got off on the wrong foot with him. He doesn't mind that I'm not a peer. He was happy to be nice to you, and then you went and fucked it up! You do realise he punched you so hard that you won't be able to exercise for three weeks?! For a genius, you really can be unbelievably dense!"  
"_Three weeks_?" Sherlock chuckled wheezily. "I think he was trying to impress you. I've had far worse than this and recovered far more quickly. I'll be fine."  
"Not if you don't go and apologise to him _right now_, Sherlock Holmes." I growled.  
"You're being dull. I'm not going to grovel to that brainless idiot."  
"That 'brainless idiot' not only has a first in natural sciences from Cambridge but is also my dearest childhood friend, Sherlock, and you will go apologise or I will... I'll... I'll make you sleep on the couch for as long as we sleep in the same room during our entire stay in any country in the world."  
Sherlock rolled his eyes and made as if to get up before a thought seemed to strike him. "I thought he was your _brother's_ friend." He said, eyes narrowing suspiciously.  
"Yes, he was, but he always came round during the holidays and stayed with us. We always got on." I floundered. "Your parents can't have been happy with you going on holiday with 'common' people, surely?" Sherlock asked Charlie.  
"Just because I was born in an old family it doesn't mean we're all snobs. Besides, Elle's family are..." Charlie stumbled as he noticed me waving my hands frantically from behind Sherlock's back. "Just as rich as us." He finished lamely. Sherlock looked from me to Charlie and back again. "Sherlock, apologise." I said in a desperate bid to change the subject. "What would your army doctor say?" I admonished.  
"John?" Sherlock looked surprised. "Something exquisitely non-committal, I expect. He hates snobs too." He stared pointedly at Charlie. Noticing how lost he looked, I explained, "Dr John Watson is Sherlock's flatmate, Cee. He helps him out with cases."  
"Army doctor? He wouldn't... No." Charlie shook his head.  
"What?" Sherlock asked.  
"Well, it must be quite a common name, but that wouldn't be Captain John Watson, by any chance? Blond? Blue eyes? Likes jam?"  
"Yes. Why?" Sherlock was in defensive mode now.  
"Why, he served directly under me! He sent me word that he was living in London, but I never connected him with your sidekick in the newspapers."  
"John served under _you_?" Sherlock repeated, aghast. "Did he _like_ you?"  
"Well, yes, I'd like to think so. I certainly liked him - I was very badly shaken when he got shot, I can tell you. Someone told me he was trying to join again just as I left. My last order was for him to be refused. Don't tell him, will you? The shame must have hurt him, but I couldn't let him go back out there with a shoulder like his."  
"John tried to sign up again?" Sherlock's voice had gone very quiet.  
"Yes. He'll never forgive me if he finds out about what I did, but..."  
"You were correct in doing so." Sherlock said more forcefully, sounding strangely like Mycroft. "I apologise for my earlier behaviour. Any man John takes commands from is a good one, Major de Vere." Sherlock extended his hand like a peace offering. A shell-shocked Charlie shook it and said, rather warmly than he first had, "And any man that John lives with can't be bad. A pleasure to meet you, Sherlock. Call me Charlie, will you?"  
I grinned as these two polar opposites - the most important men in my life at this point in time - shook hands and exchanged smiles.

Whilst Sherlock and Charlie discussed the finer details of the plan, I excused myself to go to the bathroom. Once there, I turned on the shower and the tap, and sat on the lid of the toilet seat, debating what to do. Sherlock and I had to get into this party somehow, and Sherlock had discovered that no one was allowed in without an invite. Charlie couldn't get us in because he had to pretend not to know me and Sherlock. I couldn't get us in because I couldn't reveal my identity. Sherlock... Well, there was clearly nothing Sherlock could do. There was nothing for it but to do the one thing I really, _really_ didn't want to do: ask for assistance from Mycroft Holmes. Gritting my teeth and taking out my old mobile, I hit redial with all the force I wanted to apply to that man's face.  
"Yello?" A voice that was most definitely not Mycroft's came across the airwaves. Putting on my best angry snob accent, I greeted it rudely.  
"I have no idea who you are or what on earth you are doing with Mr. Holmes' phone, but I demand that you pass him on to me straight away!"  
"Uh, sure. He's uh. He's... Well, he's in the shower. Could you wait?" The unknown voice stuttered.  
"Really, this is quite impossible. Who are you, anyway?"  
"I'm his... I'm his live-in secretary." The lie was so transparent it was practically non-existent.  
"Indeed? And what are you doing in his bedroom?"  
"How did you know I was in his bedroom?!"  
"I can hear the shower running. Mycroft's wealth is such that I'm sure he has an en-suite and you are answering a personal telephone that he has on him at all times, therefore you are in his bedroom. As such, you are most likely his lover."  
"_Bloody hell_. Are you related to him?" The voice took on a wondering tone.  
"No. But if you would hurry him out of the shower, I would appreciate it very much, Detective Inspector."  
Greg Lestrade sounded panicked as he replied, "Look, who the hell are you and how do you know who I am?!"  
"A mere shot in the dark. Please, Greg. I'm growing impatient." I heard the shower stop running at the other end, and a door open.  
"What is it, Gregory?" I heard Mycroft ask. Greg put his hand over the phone to muffle the sound, but I could still vaguely hear him say,  
"Some stuck up woman wants to speak to you, Myc. She worked out my name and everything. Reminds me of Sherlock."  
"Miss Carlton?" Mycroft's plush voice sounded miffed. "You can resume your normal tone of voice now."  
"Mr. Holmes. I need your help."  
"Considering your treatment of Gregory..."  
"Mycroft. _Please_." Quietly, Mycroft sighed. I took this as a sign to continue.  
"We need to get into Mamut's house, the one outside of Moscow. He's throwing a party, and we need two invitations."  
"I will provide assistance, but you must assure me that young Charles will not get hurt. His mother would never forgive mine if she found out that either I or Sherlock was involved."  
"Your _mother?_... Yes, fine. I value Charlie's life more than my own, Mr. Holmes. You should know that."  
"Considering your history with narcotics, I'm not quite sure how much value that is, but I comprehend the sentiment."  
"Thank you." I said, with only a little sarcasm.  
"Miss Carlton? Have you thought upon our earlier conversation? I would have thought my point would have been driven home by the arrival of the young Earl."  
"Mycroft, I don't want to hurt Sherlock any more the I want to hurt Charlie! This is not the time to tell him. Anyway, I very much doubt that he would care."  
"He has grown fond of you. Take my word for it, this would hurt him. You must tell him, and soon." He rung off before I had the chance to say goodbye to Greg, leaving me pissed off once more. Hearing laughter from next door, I turned off the shower and the tap smiling, glad that at least one if the Holmes boys was behaving - for now.

I couldn't resist mentioning jam, or having a little bit of mystrade creep in... Not going to apologise :P! More soon, but until then, **thank you thank you thank you** to everyone who favourite and followed. You can all have imaginary Harley Davidson Road Kings :)

Every time you don't review a hedgehog dies :'(


	14. Chapter 14: Russian Roulette

_**Author's note: So I've been on holiday... Sorry for not updating. But here is a chapter to make you happy again (I hope)! So, none of you try Russian roulette at home please... And if you do, do it with a revolver and not a semiautomatic as one contender for the Darwin Award did! **_

_**P.S: Russian translations =**_

_**Нет - No**_

_**Вы хотите играть? - You want to play?**_

_**Да, пожалустa - Yes, please**_

_**Меня зовут Антонин, кстати - My name is Antonin, by the way**_

_Outskirts of Moscow - Friday, 11pm_

The man to the left of the dealer, the man who had caused all the commotion, was roaring drunk. There is a case to be made that he was drunk when he first entered the room, but if that is true then at this stage in the proceedings he would be in a coma. The man was also losing extremely badly at poker. Almost exactly an hour - and 15 cigarettes - after the game had begun, Charles de Vere, Earl of Oxford, threw his hand into the middle of the table. Pronouncing, "I'm utterly Wellingtonned." He stood up, leaving many people wondering whether he was referring to his current state of inebriation, his bad luck, or both. A few of the less experienced poker players sat round the table allowed a small smile to play on their lips for a split second, knowing they would soon collect a share of the money the man had paid to even be permitted to play. Expressionlessly, Sergei Dimitrov put his hand out to rake the remainder of the Earl's poker chips to the middle of the table. However his fingers had barely touched the nearest chip when the man to whom they belonged whirled round from where he had been standing near the table looking lost.  
"I've just had a bloody good idea." He announced. Pointing randomly at one of the women milling around the room, he continued "She can take my place." Everyone listening gasped, apart from Dimitrov, whose left eyebrow arched itself for a split second before being forced back down. His mouth opened, a word pushed itself out, "_Нет_."  
Upon being asked why, the host answered in a tone that brooked no argument that women simply did not play around this table. Unabashed, de Vere simply singled out a man in the middle of the crowd. Surrounded by a gaggle of beautiful women and looking as dishevelled as a gentleman can - that is, déshabillé - it was impossible to tell whether the man himself or the suit he was wearing was more exquisitely made. When he realised that he had been picked as de Vere's next victim, he smiled charmingly and declined graciously in almost perfect English only slightly affected by a lilting French accent.  
The Earl would have none of it - walking in a practically straight line towards the man he had chosen, he grabbed him and led the protesting sacrifice to the table, sitting him down.  
"Sergei, if you accept him as my replacement I'll raise the stakes. Let him play, he'll do his best and I'll pay him well," at this the gentleman brightened up considerably and stopped saying no in an array of different languages, "and I'll buy him a brand new set of chips to start him off."  
Whispers chased each other round the room; this was unheard of. Sergei turned to the man now sat on his left.  
"_Вы хотите играть_?" He asked.  
"_Да, пожалустa_." The gentleman replied after brief consultation with de Vere. "_Меня зовут Антонин, кстати_." He continued.  
Sergei Dimitrov nodded. The game began once more.

Only two men remained around the table. The others had left a long time ago, expressing their disgust in their native tongues as they threw down their cards and quit the room one by one. The crowd had also thinned, and now only a few women hung around in clumps, usually listening to some rich young man's tale about his exploits and wealth. The only recognisable faces were those of Charles de Vere (flirting with no less than 5 heiresses), Sergei Dimitrov (looking mildly unimpressed) and the gentleman who had introduced himself as 'Antonin'. The latter two were staring at each other in consternation, wondering what they were to do next. Both refused to simply half the total winnings, and both refused to simply walk away. So when de Vere wandered over with a suggestion, both agreed immediately.

My heart was in my mouth as I watched the final stages of our plan unfolding. All it would take would be for Dimitrov to be suspicious, or come up with a different idea, and all our efforts would be wasted. Charlie was doing brilliantly, acting almost as well as Sherlock. I saw Charlie go over to the table, saw him explain in a drunken manner, and waited... Dimitrov nodded, and Sherlock followed. Almost collapsing with relief, I downed my glass of champagne and continued chatting aimlessly to the bimbette next to me. Charlie came back and grabbed me, as if at random, bringing me to the main table and explaining what I had to do. Making all the right noises of shock, horror and finally begrudging assent, I saw a footman come over with a case. Dimitrov opened it, and brought out a Colt revolver. I almost smiled when I realised what it was - a Detective Special. The gun was raised to the Russian's head by his own hand, the trigger was pulled, someone screamed... A click, then nothing. Dimitrov smiled, and passed the gun to Sherlock. His hand was steady as he brought the gun to his temple, his eyes were bright. I remembered him telling me about how bored he got, how terror helped... Now I was the one that wanted to scream. _He has to have done something,_ I told myself. _He has to have rigged the gun so he won't lose_. But deep down I knew that he hadn't, that he hadn't left my sight all evening. I watched the slender finger hook itself round the trigger and pull. _Click_ - No bullet. I felt my knees buckle and Cee held me upright with a surreptitious arm around my waist. Back the gun went to Dimitrov. I knew there were six chambers to this gun, and that spinning the cylinder didn't exactly change much - really, each of them only had three chances before they hit on the actual bullet. Every time it was Sherlock's turn, I felt like the floor was caving in under my feet, and only Charlie kept me standing up. For the third time, Dimitrov pulled the trigger. For the third time, nothing happened. He spun the cylinder and Sherlock took the gun. I closed my eyes and played music in my head, shouted at myself, tried desperately to distract my ears. A shot resonated round the room. I felt like it had pierced my heart, and I flung my eyes open, looking for Sherlock's body and his bloodstained head. But Sherlock was in front of me, smiling triumphantly. Shocked, the few people left in room screamed and protested, but both Sherlock and Dimitrov had signed a piece of paper to the effect that they were not responsible for each other's deaths. Cee and I were witness to this. Expressionless, a footman handed Sherlock a suitcase full of his winnings, and the second suitcase to Charlie. Everyone was herded from the room, and the last thing I remember was climbing into a car before I fainted, and the world turned to grey.

I woke in the hotel bed the next morning to find Charlie say opposite me, looking worried. I sat up too quickly, and my head swam, but I managed to ask him to explain what had happened. The shock had been too much for me, I had fainted. A car had driven me to a hotel where I had been carried into another car, and finally to this hotel. He and Sherlock had undertaken similar journeys in separate cars. The money was now safe in his bank account. Sherlock was next door sleeping. Charlie had stayed up all night watching me, thinking I might never wake up. I opened my mouth to say how much I appreciated this, but that it was pointless, because what could I have died from? When I understood. Charlie didn't know what drug cocktail I used to take on regular occasions, and he was no doctor, but he knew that drugs could weaken the heart. This man had spent over 12 hours at my bedside, tortured by the possibility that I could have had some kind of heart attack. I got out of bed to hug him, started reassuring him and thanking him. The door opened and Sherlock walked in, taking in the scene in half a second.  
"I told you she wasn't dead," he drawled. Looking at me, he continued, "You might want to put some clothes on." I stared down at myself, mortified. I hadn't even thought about what I was wearing, let alone seen that I was naked. Scrambling off Charlie's lap I dressed in record time, noticing that while Sherlock was running his eyes over me in his familiar fashion, Charlie's were resolutely screwed shut. Sherlock walked out, throwing over his shoulder, "He did that last night too. Took him an hour to undress you with his eyes closed."

Charlie left later that day. He came to kiss me goodbye, hugging me and whispering quietly. "I wish that there was a world in which you looked at me as you look at him."  
"I'm not in love with him, Cee. But I do wish there was a world in which I was with you."  
He shook his head and smiled sadly. "No matter what you think, you are in love with him, darling. And if you spend any more time with him, there's no way he won't fall for you."  
"Charlie..." I protested. He cut me off.  
"You fainted when he thought he was dead. I know you would do the same for me, but you've known me all your life. I won't tell you to go home, because I know you won't but...If he hurts you, I'll kill him." There was nothing I could reply to that, so I simply hugged him again and let him say goodbye to Sherlock. They shook hands, parting on good terms.  
"I'll look up John Watson, make sure he's alright."  
"Thank you." Sherlock sounded genuinely touched.  
"You can do me a favour in return. Look after her. She's more than she lets on."  
"More what?"  
"More intelligent, more beautiful, more everything." I turned crimson in the corner. Sherlock nodded slowly, and was clapped on the back by Charlie.  
"As soon as this is over, I'll come see you. I promise it won't be as long as last time." I told Charlie as he went out of the door.  
"Make sure it isn't." He smiled, then he turned and left, and I had to close the door. Just like that, I was alone with Sherlock once more.

_**Please review and follow and favourite and all the other lovely things you can do. Thank you so much to **__**Always Question**__** for getting rid of my writer's block and giving me the warm fuzzies. Anyone who reads this story is amazing, and I love you all. Thank you so much :)**_

_**P.S Has anyone else seen the BBC Original British Drama trailer? Sherlock. On a motorbike. Just saying...**_


	15. Chapter 15: The Return of the Native

_**Author's Note: I'm so, so sorry that it's been so long. Thank you to every single one of you for still reading and following and favouriting despite how awful I've been. Some of the comments and PMs I've had have been unbelievably lovely, and I really can't thank you enough. This chapter was supposed to be an 'I'm sorry' present, but I've been warned that it might actually upset people more... Whoops. So I also apologise for any Reichenbach PTSD triggered, and please remember that even if I don't update in a whole, it doesn't mean I've forgotten a single one of you.**_

"Prague." He said, moving towards the bedroom.  
"No. I'm not going to Prague, Sherlock."  
He tilted his head in order to scrutinise me better. "You're upset."  
"Fanfuckingtastic deduction, genius."  
"But you're not in love with him." He said it firmly, trying to affirm the variables he knew in a confusing equation.  
"No, I'm not. But is it at all possible for you to understand that I love him? He's the closest thing I have to a brother, and I'm practically abandoning him to stay here and finish this off."  
"You just said you weren't going to finish this." This wasn't going well. I sighed. Gave in.  
"Fine, Sherlock. I'll go to Prague. I'll kill whoever you want me to and help you do this, but you need to tell me something."  
He looked wary, not understanding my drastic changes of position.  
"What?" He asked simply.  
"Can you... Are you able to comprehend emotion? Do you just pretend you can't?"  
He was out of his comfort zone. Was this the first real conversation we'd ever had? Or did I just feel that way because I had never known him to be quite so vulnerable?  
"I cannot feel things the way you do. I have a basic... Understanding, and I have been affected by certain events not under my control, but sentiment is not exactly my area."  
"Can you love someone?" My voice was quiet.  
"I don't know." He replied. "I'm not sure I know what love is."  
"Neither do I."  
We must have looked odd, standing in that room. I was trying not to cry, Sherlock looked entirely out of his element. We both couldn't understand the overwhelming sadness that had washed over us. And for once, neither of us knew what the other was thinking.  
"It's time we packed, Sherlock." I went into the bedroom.  
"Why can't I understand you?" He called after me, frustrated.  
_Because I'm not who you think I am. Because I lie. Because I think I love you, and love isn't rational. Because you can't love me._  
"You're just tired, Sherlock."

Prague was terrifying. Venice was worse. Monaco was warm, but too crowded for things to go to plan. Munich was a disaster, but the woman still died. New York was a month of constant worrying, because London was next. And London was last.

I had loved London, when I was younger. Driving in had been a rare treat, something that happened when my mother didn't know what to do with us and the nanny was on holiday. Since then, I'd been in London countless times for hundreds of reasons, and yet it still hadn't lost its strange charm. It wasn't my favourite city, but looking at Sherlock's face as we stood sheltering from the rain under a bus stop, I could see what a strain it had been for him to be away for so long.  
"You really love it here, don't you?"  
He looked at me curiously. "Yes, I suppose I do. I hadn't thought of it like that before."  
We leant against the plastic bench in companionable silence. No matter that we had to kill someone while we were here, no matter that the man beside me was unbelievably odd and undeniably wonderful; he was happy. And I was happy.  
"I should warn you about the man that..." Sherlock started.  
"Don't." I cut him off. "I don't care who he is or what he's done. You've told me before that he was Moriarty's right hand man, and that's enough for me. I'll do what has to be done."  
It was slowly dawning on me that if we managed to pull this off, Sherlock would no longer be in danger. I would be able to go home and continue picking up the pieces, and Sherlock could live in the city he loved, doing what he was best at. I would be useless. I decided right there and then, staring out at the grey drizzle of England, that I would enjoy every last second I was spending with Sherlock. I knew what would happen, and how this would end, but I wasn't going to let that knowledge sour what had been the most exhilarating time of my life.  
"Just tell me what we do first. Can I see 221B?"  
"No, it's almost certainly being watched. In fact, I need you to act again."  
"Who am I?" Why was it that the prospect of a new character still filled me with excitement, when I had played countless roles throughout my life, and especially in the last few months?  
"It's going to be a slow process. You're going to have to befriend a pathologist."

The place in which we stayed was an old haunt of mine. It wasn't stylish, comfortable or even particularly clean, but it was practically impossible to trace the ownership back to me. I wanted to see Baker Street, to get a real feel for Sherlock's life, but sadly the circumstances meant that this couldn't happen. 221B, as it turns out, was at this point only inhabited by the landlady. Sherlock briefly explained that no one wanted to buy the flat after his 'death', and yet John Watson couldn't bring himself to live in it. So all of Sherlock's belongings remained in the flat gathering dust, and Watson's whereabouts were unknown.  
I was now to be introduced to another acquaintance of Sherlock's - a certain Molly Hooper. I was to volunteer at St Bartholomew's Hospital and become friends with her. Sherlock's description of her was extremely strange and contradictory. I would find her mousy and shy, but opinionated and with a strong sense of morality. She was intelligent, yet she had difficulty making decisions; she was well spoken and hardworking, yet nervous and easy to distract. Sherlock was very close to shamefaced as he talked about her, and I could only guess that he had manipulated her in some way (as he did with so many others) though I didn't know to what extent. The man in question's job was to lie low and stay in or as close to our hideout as possible. Somehow, I felt I would find it easier infiltrating a hospital than he would keeping quiet for more than a day.

"Antonia, get me a washcloth, will you?"  
"Give me a second, please, Dr Hooper!" I yelled over my shoulder from the room next door. Picking up a cloth along the way, I rushed to where the small, panicked pathologist was standing. I was about to hand it to her when I saw the pleading look in her eyes - she didn't so much want the cloth as want me to clear up the mess.  
"Don't worry, I'll do it, Dr H.," I said dutifully, trying not to grimace as I wiped god knows what off the metal table. "There's only one more on the list for this evening, anyway," I continued.  
"Finally! It's been an unbelievably long day. Are you sure it's only 6? They don't pay me enough for this, I swear." Molly turned the tap on and chattered happily, albeit with an exhausted edge to her voice.  
"Hey, count yourself lucky, they don't pay _me_ anything!" I joked, throwing the now filthy towel into the bin and washing my hands in the adjacent sink.  
"God, I keep forgetting! I don't know what I'd do without you now. In fact, I'm surprised management hasn't offered you a position as my assistant or something. I suppose, what with the recession and all..."  
"Don't worry, I'm not expecting it! There's a reason I come back every day. Apart from the chatty patients, of course," I grinned, motioning to the latest corpse.  
"Yeah, you need to have some volunteering work on your C.V." She said, a smile in her voice.  
"Well, there is _that_..." We both laughed and continued clearing up, cheered by the imminence of the end of the working day.  
"My friend Mary's popping by later, by the way. She works upstairs, with the live people," Molly said, pointing to the ceiling.  
"Oh, okay. I'll be off after this one, so I probably won't catch her."  
"No, I mentioned it because I think you'd get on. She's been transferred from an NHS hospital nearby, so she's new too, and really sweet."  
"Oh, thank you. I'd love to meet her," I replied, genuinely touched.  
"That's okay." Molly was a bit awkward with thanks. "You should really start calling me Molly, you know," She quickly changed the subject to hide her blush.  
"Am I not supposed to keep being vaguely professional for more than 3 weeks?" I asked jokingly.  
"It feels like you've been here a year, so honestly I couldn't care less about professionalism. And as you said, you're not technically an employee, seeing as you don't get paid!"  
"In that case, call me Tony. I can see you struggling to get your tongue around Antonia every time you need something quickly!"  
At first, this lovely woman had been everything Sherlock had warned me about - quiet generally and hesitant in the rare moments of conversation. However, her passion for her work stood out no less than her aptitude for it, and from the moment I saw her in action I decided that even the great detective could be wrong about some things. This impression was strengthened as I spent more and more time helping in the morgue, and very soon we were talking and joking as if we had known each other forever.

We had just finished rolling away the last corpse and making sure everything was clean and tidy when there was a knock on the door.  
"Come in!" Molly called. A pale, slight blonde woman entered. Though her features were pinched, she still managed to be very pretty, if a little saccharinely. She glanced around, looking for Molly, and caught sight of me.  
"Oh! Hi, I'm Mary Morstan." She walked towards me shyly and held her hand out.  
"Antonia Fletcher." I smiled, shaking it.  
"So you're Molly's new helper? She keeps telling me how wonderful you are!"  
"Does she? I can't think why!"  
"I'll be through in a minute!" Molly's voice was heard.  
"So, you've only just started working here?" I asked Mary as we sat down.  
"Yes, my first job in a private hospital."  
"How are you finding it? This is my first time in a place as big as this too," I explained. We continued chatting about this and that until Molly came through to the main room.  
"Hey Mary, how are you?" Molly sat next to us.  
"I'm alright. The second week's been just as good as the first, so I'm stating to think this was a really good decision."  
"How could you not?" Molly faked being shocked.  
"I can't stay very long, by the way," Mary announced apologetically. "I'm meeting someone soon. We're going to go out and have dinner."  
"Is this the same someone you've been meeting for the last few months?" Molly asked, arching her eyebrows.  
"Maybe..." Her friend answered evasively, going light pink.  
I felt slightly awkward, not knowing who they were discussing.  
"I should be off now, anyway," I said, standing up and getting my bag and coat. "Nice meeting you, Mary. See you tomorrow, Dr Hooper!" Molly said goodbye and wandered to the room where we kept our things, shouting the occasional question to Mary about her new boyfriend.  
I made my way to the door out of the morgue, only to have it open before I touched it. I crashed into a compact, sandy-haired man, and we both started apologising profusely.  
"John!" Mary sounded startled.  
"Sorry, sorry." I mumbled, sidestepping out of the man's way. Mary stood and came towards us. "John, this is the new assistant, Antonia Fletcher."  
"_You're_ an assistant pathologist?" The man called John sounded strangely surprised.

"Volunteer, really. I'm not actually paid..."

His eyebrows shot up further.  
"Doesn't look like one, does she?" Mary laughed nervously.  
"Unlike me!" Molly joked, walking into the main room again. She saw us gathered by the door and froze, going white.  
"Molly! How are you?" John was now even more shocked, this time at seeing Molly, who he evidently knew.  
"It's been ages!" He continued, smiling quickly to Mary before grinning more broadly at Molly.  
"What on Earth are you doing here?" Molly asked, still immobile.  
"Meeting Mary here. I didn't know you two knew each other!"  
"Wait, you're the one Mary's been having dinner with? I didn't even know you still lived in London, after..." Molly trailed off, glancing from her friend to John and back again.  
"Well, I wasn't aware that everyone had already met," Mary said trying to break the silence, not understanding the strange undercurrents of tension that seemed to be running through the room.  
I stood by the door, uncertain of what I should do, as I was the only one who hadn't met this man before.  
Luckily, Molly noticed me and spoke quickly and quietly.  
"Antonia, this is an old friend of mine, Dr John Watson."

_**Do I owe you two apologies, or just one? Either way, I'll try to be better about updating in the future! Have an amazing almost weekend,and keep doing what you do best: making every letter I type worthwhile. That said, I owe so much to all of you, but two whose names I know are **__**Always Question **__**and a guest called '**__**latenight reader**__**'. Thank you, you two, from the bottom of my heart.**_


	16. Chapter 16: The Demon Lover

**_I come bearing gifts! Yay for being back on schedule :)_** **_I apologise for my excessive use of italics in this chapter... Everyone was being quite forceful and I don't like using bold type. Yes, I'm weird. Shhh._**

I didn't know what to do. I had so many ties to this man - should I say that I had heard of him, either from Cee or the papers? Or maybe just feign ignorance and leave as soon as possible? I went with option number two.  
"Nice to meet you. I'm..."  
"Antonia, I heard." He shook my hand absent-mindedly before turning once more to Molly.  
"I wasn't sure that you still worked at Bart's. This is hardly normal working hours anyway... And for you and Mary to know each other..." The excuses flooded out of the sandy-haired man.  
"Nope, still here. And still working long hours." Molly forced a smile.  
"John, we should get going, the reservation's for 7:30, remember?" Mary broke in quietly, pointing to he slim gold watch on her wrist.  
"Yes. Yes, you're right." John tore his eyes from Molly, who was trembling slightly. "We should go. I'll... I'll drop by soon, Molly."  
Mary hooked her arm in her boyfriend's as they left, shooting worried glances at her friend.  
"I'll call you, Molly," she said over her shoulder as they walked out.  
Outside, I heard John promising that he would explain everything in the cab. I rushed to Molly, who was weeping quietly.

"Are you okay?" The question was futile, but the best I could come up with under the circumstances.  
"Yes, I'm fine. Sorry, I'm being so silly," she broke down as I led her to a chair and sat her down.  
"It's just, he used to always be with this, this man I used to know. Used to... Like," she managed in between spluttering hiccups and sniffing.  
"Do you want to talk about it?"  
"No, it's alright. I'll be alright." She slowly wiped her tears away and tried to clear herself up; I brought her some tissues and helped her.  
"I know you'll be alright, but the question is are you okay for now?"  
"Of course I am. I've had three years to get over him." She smiled weakly at her own shortcomings.  
"Three years is nothing, take it from me. It took me 6 years, 8 months and 11 days to finally stop thinking about the 'man of my dreams' who turned out to be more like Satan. Sometimes, I think I'm still not over him."  
"You?" She said, peering up at me. "But you're so..." She waved her hand in my direction. I laughed. "Whatever that's supposed to be, I can promise that I'm not. We're the unlucky ones, you see. When Tennyson said that it was better to have loved and lost he wasn't thinking about those of us who loved but were never loved back."

Mary nodded. "He - this man - was, and still is such a huge part of my life. I just found it so hard to come to terms with the fact that it wouldn't matter to him if I was here or not."

"I don't think that's true. Someone who _you_ would fall in love with wouldn't be that carless. I have more faith in you than that," I murmured, resolving to punch Sherlock repeatedly the minute I got home.  
"What are you doing tonight?" I continued.  
"Going home. Alone, of course," Molly muttered.  
"No. You're going to a pub with me, and then I'll drop you off at yours. Come on!"  
"But..." Molly started protesting.  
"No buts. Get your coat and sort your make up out, and then we'll be off. As long as we're in for 8am tomorrow, there's nothing that says we can't have fun in between!"  
I dragged her to her feet and escorted her to the bathroom. _I will kill that man so slowly that he won't even know when the torture ends and purgatory starts_, I promised myself.

I stormed into the flat at 3am, a little worse for the wear. "Sherlock Holmes! Come here _now_!" I screamed up the stairs.  
He appeared a few seconds later, somehow looking both irritated and bored.  
"Kindly quieten down. We don't want _all_ of London to know I'm here."  
"Shut up. What the fuck did you do to Dr Molly Hooper? She's a wreck."  
"I merely had to use a different... method of persuasion on her than I use on most people." His words were cold and hard, but I could hear the tinge of guilt beneath them.  
"Did you ever sleep with her?"  
"No. If you weren't quite so inebriated, you would remember that I was, until recently, relatively inexperienced in that area."  
"Did you ever say anything that she could have taken to mean that you loved her?"  
"No. I was very careful in the way I worded my requests."  
Of course he was, the calculating bastard.  
"Did you ever use her?"  
With every question I had asked, I had climbed one of the stairs. When he answered, he took one step nearer to me.  
"Yes."  
"Was she the first?"  
Step.  
"No."  
Step.  
"Was she the last?"  
Step.  
"No."  
Step.  
"Am _I_ being used?"  
Step.  
"No."  
One more step to go before I would be in his arms. I was silent, disbelieving. He asked his own question,  
"Would you like to be?"  
Just like that, everything changed. Molly was forgotten, the distance between us shrank, his huge grey eyes seemed to be the only thing I could see.  
Four seconds. Ten heartbeats.  
I leant forwards, breathed in the smell of him. He mirrored me. At the last second, I moved my lips to his ear instead.  
"Would _you_?" I whispered. Heard his breathing quicken. Moved my hand up, trailed it to his throat... I waited, then grabbed his jaw.  
"Never, _ever_ do anything like that to _anyone_ again, Sherlock," I hissed.  
"And never try to distract me from screaming at you by doing whatever the fuck that was. And most importantly, don't underestimate me. You can't manipulate me as easily as you think you can."  
I let go of him and pushed past him up to the landing. I had barely taken a step towards my room when I was slammed against a wall, an arm across my throat.  
"You seen to have forgotten that you have imbibed a copious amount of alcohol and that your reflexes will therefore be slower than usual. Your already-addled mind is, in fact, extremely simple to manipulate, especially by someone who can tell just by looking at you exactly where you've been and what you've been doing. _In what state is Dr John Watson?_"  
"How're the homeless of London?" I shot back.  
"Answer me, now." The pressure on my throat increased.  
"In a remarkably better state than you will be," I muttered under my breath, and attempted to knee him in the crotch.  
He span to the right so that his own back was against the wall next to me in order to avoid my assault. I immediately started walking to my room, but I was too slow. He grabbed my hands and held them crossed behind my back, then rested his chin on my shoulder as he spoke in my ear.  
"You've had 11 units of alcohol in the last two hours. However, that isn't an excuse for not listening to me when I tell you that your reflexes are slower."  
I dropped my chin to my chest in submission, then snapped it back up, slamming our heads together. Sherlock let go of me and I took the opportunity to kick his legs out from underneath him. I leant over him, ignoring my headache, and held his wrists to the floor. I mimicked his tone of voice,  
"You've made a breakthrough in the case and you're a genius, but that's no excuse for not realising that I've had 13 units and I'm the one still standing. I warned you: _don't_ underestimate me." I stood up straight, thinking I could finally make my way to my bed. I was wrong, of course. A hand grasped my ankle and sent me flying. Next thing I knew, I was sprawling on the floor next to Sherlock. Suddenly, the absurdity of our situation hit me and I burst out laughing; the same thing must have happened to him, as he joined in.

A few minutes later, we had both regained our composure, but neither of us could be bothered to get up.  
"Seriously, though, you were pretty savage to Molly." I looked at him, cataloging his response.  
"I know." He looked straight at me.  
"I will make it up to her. I just haven't had the chance yet. Speaking of serious, you never told me how John was."  
"Alright. He has a girlfriend."  
"He always has a girlfriend." Sherlock snorted quietly. "They used to call him 'Three continents Watson', apparently. People still thought we were together, though."  
"Just out of interest, how did you..."  
"You went drinking - only a few possibilities for who you went with. You could have gone alone; extremely unlikely. You could have gone with an old friend; more likely, but still improbable considering you're supposed to be in character. Or, you could have gone with Molly. You came in talking about her; Molly's the most likely then. You were angry at me, therefore you two had clearly discussed me or relationships in general. Bit early for that considering you two have only known each other a month, so something precipitated the discussion - either Molly was upset for some reason or you brought it up. No reason for _you_ to mention me, so it must have been _her_ state of mind that brought on the conversation. Next question, Why would she be upset? Something or someone had reminded her of me enough that she was visibly affected. Only John or Lestrade could have done that, and there haven't been any homicides in the papers recently, so more likely John. Conclusion: John Watson was in Bart's today."  
"Fuck off."  
He caught sight if the glint in my eye and smiled.  
"13 units? Pretty impressive," he pointed out.  
"Drugs raise tolerance, remember?"  
Another comfortable silence.  
"We should probably get up," I said reluctantly.  
"But think of all the things we can do down here..."  
"Oi. I said no funny business."  
"That was in the context of you screaming at me."  
"You _would_ remember that, wouldn't you?" I smiled fondly. Groaning, I heaved myself off the floor and offered Sherlock a hand.  
"My head is killing me," I muttered.  
He shot me a black look and stood up too.  
"Alright, alright. You didn't leave me much choice, to be fair. What else was I supposed to do?" I asked defensively.  
"Not that," he said simply, rubbing the base of his neck.  
"_Don't_." I warned, closing my eyes.  
"Don't what?" Came the confused reply.  
"Stretch your neck in front of me when I'm not fully in control of myself."  
"What happens?"  
I opened my eyes. "It doesn't involve getting rid of our headaches or either of us getting any sleep."  
He deliberately moved his head from one shoulder to another.  
"I promise, I won't be responsible for my actions," I threatened.  
The look he gave me was directly challenging. He tipped his head back, exposing his whole throat.  
_That's it_, I thought.

**_So, you have a choice now. To smut, or not to smut? Depending on what you want, the next chapter will just carry straight on from here with some random tension-diffusing thing happening, or full blown smut will materialise. SPEAK, AND YE SHALL BE HEARD._**

**_On a separate note, thank you to _****_Gwilwilith _****_for being adorable. And, of course, to the rest of you for reading and inspiring me. Until next time!_**


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